


The Way Things are Meant to Be

by angrysadparrot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amazon Chaser, Bull is the best wingman, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Crisis of Faith, Cullen Rutherford Smut, Cullen Smut, Cullenlingus (Dragon Age), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Issala Adaar - Freeform, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Qunari Culture and Customs, Religious Guilt, Rogue Inquisitor - Freeform, Rylen is a plot device, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Sorry Rylen, Strong Female Characters, Tal-Vashoth, soft dom/sub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrysadparrot/pseuds/angrysadparrot
Summary: Issala Adaar is in over her head. She's not the Herald of Andraste, she's not a hero, and she's pretty sure she's not getting paid for any of this. But when you're the only one who can stop the world from ending, sometimes you've just got to suck it up. It helps to have a new kith of misfits to watch your back, too.Friendship, flirting and fun are all in a day's work for a plucky Vashoth with a weakness for strong men in shiny armor.-A semi-canon-divergent/shamelessly self-indulgent fic for my Adaar Quiz, because the world needs more Cullen/Fem!Adaar in it. Smutty chapters are marked with a *.
Relationships: Female Adaar/Cullen Rutherford, Female Adaar/Rylen (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 23
Kudos: 54





	1. The Herald of Andraste

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't leave my brain after my nth play-through of DAI, and since it's quarantine times I decided to exercise my fic-writing muscles for the first time since high school. Smut and NSFW fun in upcoming chapters. Cullen and Adaar are both dinks at the beginning, but don't worry they smarten up.
> 
> Mostly canon-compliant except where I futz around with timelines and dialogue because why not? No Beta, we die like men, feel free to leave concrit or tag suggestions because I have no clue what I'm doing.

Her least favorite part about Haven was always the smell.

On a good day, the scent of unwashed masses of humans milling about a village would be a minor irritation at best. Haven carried a powderful miasma that was unique all on its own. There were the animals people brought with them while fleeing the chaos, the sickbed smell of the ill and the wounded, the hastily-planned latrines that had to be dug quickly for the increasing population. The haphazard layout of tents and huts combined with all the movement and noise gave off the air of a war zone rather than a pilgrimage site. The more time Issala spent roaming around the periphery of the Chantry and the village itself, the more she longed to be back with the Valo-Kas, or even back home with her family. Even her former mercenary company found every opportunity to bathe while on the road. Was a disdain for regular bathing a Fereldan habit? She would have to ask the Lady Ambassador.

Within a very short period of time, Issala had found herself thrust into a bizarre situation. It was _supposed_ to be a simple contract: the Valo-Kas had been hired as security and extra muscle for the Conclave that aimed for peace between the rebel mages and the Templars of the Southern Chantry. Her _kith_ had marched through the south from the Free Marches, trying to avoid getting caught up in the war between the mages and Templars. All they'd done was stand around the outside of the Temple looking menacing and tough, while tired Chantry clerics tried to mediate between the two sides. Boring work, but money was money and Shokrakar said it would be an easy job. 

But then Issala had awoken in the dungeon of the Chantry in Haven, accused of murdering the Divine Justinia V after a massive explosion killed anyone and everyone within a mile-wide radius of the very temple the Conclave was being held in. Hundreds, if not thousands, were dead or missing. The other members of her company were likely included in the casualties. Issala herself was the only survivor of said explosion, utterly alone. She'd apparently been barfed out of a Fade rift in the middle of the ruined temple with a curious mark upon her left hand. In short order they'd discovered that her mark was the key to closing the rifts that were popping up and spewing out demonds around the area. For a rogue with zero natural magical abilities the entire situation was terrifying. Still, she was useful to the Inquisition, and useful meant alive, and so she'd agreed to try and help stop the biggest rift above the Temple from growing and killing everyone.

The effort of sealing the Breach had laid her out for three days straight, and when she finally gained consciousness the Vashoth found herself named the _Herald of Andraste_ for her efforts—a title she felt was both incorrect and extremely unnerving—and an unwilling ally to a fledgling Inquisition that the Chantry humans had declared “reborn.” Or were they ex-Chantry humans now?

Humans were so fucking weird. And now she was working with them—for them? Was Herald her role or her title? What was she getting paid? More questions for the Lady Ambassador, who seemed to be the only one willing to entertain Issala's questions or even have a normal conversation with her.

The townsfolk of Haven and many members of the Inquisition mostly avoided her at the beginning, either due to her newfound status of “Herald” or because they feared the tall, bronze-skinned Vashoth that now walked among them. Apprehension and fear was nothing new to Issala; folks who looked like her were somewhat of a rarity this far south. But if the snippits of whispers shared behind her back were to be believed, she suspected it had more to do with the strange magical mark she had no idea how to control than anything else.

***

Varric Tethras was the first to really warm up to the new Herald in their midst.

“You know, I met a lot of Qunari in Kirkwall. You’re a Tal-Vashoth, I assume?”

Issala offered the dwarf a wry smile as she nocked another arrow on her longbow. His guess was close enough. “Quite perceptive. How did you know?”

“The fluent Trade and the busted horns kind of give it away. Plus, you didn’t immediately start quoting the Tome of Koslun as soon as we met, so I assumed you weren’t here to convert us.”

Issala smirked. “That would require a knowledge of the Tome far beyond what I know. As it is, I’m barely capable of communicating what the Qunari believe in, let alone quoting the words of Koslun himself.” She took aim at a mage who was scrapping with a Templar in the distance, and let her arrow fly. It hit them in the neck, and they dropped to the ground as a crossbow bolt and motes of fire struck the Templar in the chest. “ _Real_ Qunari would think I'm just as unenlightened as you lot, and I'm happy to keep proving them right.”

This seemed to placate the dwarf Tethras, as well as the apostate elf Solas and the Seeker Pentaghast, as they traveled through the Hinterlands together to quell the fighting that was plaguing the region. That she had no intention of converting anyone to the Qun seemed to have emboldened many of the innermost members of the Inquisition into accepting her as their would-be Herald for the time being. It was also a pleasant surprise to find out that the southerners viewed her history as a mercenary with respect and interest rather than disdain as the Qunari would. 

The Lady Josephine was nothing if not kind, though Issala could tell upon their first meeting that a Qunari (“ _I'm not Qunari!_ ”) Herald of Andraste spelled “diplomatic nightmare” for the Ambassador. Josephine was nonetheless delighted when Issala was able to converse with her in her native Antivan—even a lapsed speaker impressed her and had the potential to benefit the Inquisition in the future. They took tea together in the Ambassador's office when time permitted, and Josephine was happy to answer all of Issala's incessant questions about the politics and cultures of the region.

Leliana, Spymaster of the Inquisition, was terrifying and dangerous and Issala liked her immediately. She was absolutely fascinated with how the woman could tell delightful tales of the Orlesian courts in one breath and then order the execution of a traitorous spy in the next. Issala was wholly resolved to remain in the good graces of the ruthless and clever bard.

Seeker Cassandra had been most sure of Issala’s guilt in the Divine’s murder, and had also become her staunch supporter in the aftermath of sealing the Breach. She defended the Vashoth against the accusations of the Chancellor Roderick, offered her counsel when required, and generally seemed pleased when Issala directed their field teams to help the refugees in the Hinterlands in between making contacts and sealing rifts. The more Issala was willing to help the vulnerable and the downtrodden, the more Cassandra was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt despite earlier evidence to the contrary. Given that Cassandra was a formidable and terrifying warrior in her own right, Issala was all the more happy to have her on her side both out in the field and in the War Council meetings in Haven.

The Commander Rutherford was a different story.

Issala could practically smell the Templar on him when they met for the first time in the Valley, after defeating a horde of demons and sealing the rift they spawned from. Cassandra had still referred to her only as “the prisoner” then, but attributed their success to said prisoner and the Mark on her hand.

“Do not thank me,” Cassandra had said to him, after the last demon was felled and the Rift closed shut. “It is the prisoner’s doing.”

“Is it?” the Commander snapped in Issala’s direction, “I hope they’re right about you. We lost a lot of good men getting you here.”

Issala had a choice retort for him, _I’m the only hope you’ve got, you ass_ , on the tip of her tongue, but had only managed a grunt in reply. She was teetering on the edge of exhaustion already, and Solas was busy trying to heal a deep cut on her brow. It was hard to put a man in his place when one was a hair’s breadth away from vomiting in the snow. In between fighting more demons and trying to seal the Breach, she had forgotten about the Commander until she had the displeasure of meeting him again at the War Council.

It was disappointing, really. She'd wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt since their first meeting _was_ in the heat of battle when they all thought the world was ending around them. Tensions were high and tones got snippy and it was just the way things were sometimes.

That good will dissipated the second he put his shiny jackbooted foot in his mouth.

Everything he said or did set her teeth on edge. He was the most irritating, tight-laced man she’d ever met, stubborn to a fault, and kept referring to her mark as if it were wholly separate from Issala’s body. As if she was a mere tool to be used against the rifts and for the benefit of the Inquisition. It rankled her to no end, and the push back she received from him any time she had to make a decision in the field didn’t help matters. No matter what tactics she tried the man seemed to have a permanent stick up his arse when it came to whatever the Herald thought and did.

Hunting rams in the Hinterlands for the refugees at the Crossroads was “a waste of time” when making contact with the Horsemaster at Redcliffe Farms was far more important for the Inquisition. Entertaining the idea of seeking out the rebel mages to close the Breach once and for all was “dangerous and ignorant” compared to soliciting the Templars for help. Searching for the remaining members of the Valo-Kas was “a waste of precious resources.” Recruiting the Red Jenny Sera was “hardly a wise choice” according to the Commander, yet the First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer had “too traditional of views on Templars” to suit his tastes. And on and on and on.

He ignored Issala’s increasingly irritated corrections whenever he referred to her as a Qunari (“ _I’m_ not _Qunari—I am Vashoth_ ”) and seemed to see her as little more than a brute ox-woman, a freewheeling mercenary only concerned with finding a strong drink and her next paycheck. Which she was, sometimes. But not when the damn world was falling apart. And he was so stupidly _handsome_ , too, which made the whole situation between them entirely unfair.

Issala held her tongue in his presence the majority of the time, though much to Leliana's delight and Josephine’s displeasure she reveled in any opportunity to needle the stubborn man for sport. No matter. She would leave him to train up the new recruits of this Inquisition, and he could shove his opinions about her decisions up alongside his stick as far as she was concerned. The upcoming mission to the Storm Coast would be a welcome break from his sharp remarks during their meetings, or the scowls he sent her way across the training grounds.

The more time she spent away from the Commander and his constant brooding, the better.


	2. A Thorn in the Commander's Side

“Hot damn, it’s true! Oh, the Chantry must _love_ you. A Qunari mercenary is the Herald of Andraste? Who would’ve thought?”

Any anticipation Issala entertained at the idea of recruiting another Tal-Vashoth mercenary into the Inquisition dissipated as soon as she met The Iron Bull face-to-face. She knew of the Chargers’ reputation from Shokrakar and had just seen the company fight; they were good at what they did and that much was true. But their Captain was a little _too_ much. Too jovial, too _laissez faire_ for what she was used to. The jibe about her being a _Qunari_ Herald of Andraste instead of a Tal-Vashoth seemed intentional. Her instincts told her something was a little off about him, but still she offered the massive man a small smile and walked a ways from the others to discuss business in private.

“You seem to have done well enough for yourself,” she quipped, arms crossing as The Iron Bull sat down on a rocky outcrop in front of her. Her golden eyes roved up and down his form and cataloged as many details as possible: scarred everywhere, eye patch, well-muscled under a layer of cultivated fat, some finger joints missing on one hand. Definitely been in his fair share of fights and come out the other side as victor. Relaxed and at ease even under her scrutiny. And he was taking her in as much as she was him. 

“The Chargers seem like a decent enough company, but we need magic to close the Breach. Why should we add you to the roster?”

The Iron Bull grinned and crossed his arms too. “You’ve seen us fight—my boys are expensive, but we’re worth it. But you don’t just get them. You get me. You need a front-line bodyguard, I’m your man. Demons, dragons, whatever you’re facing: the bigger the better.” He stood and moved closer, looming over her. It was both a familiar and alienating feeling, to have to look up at someone’s face again. He was studying her expression very carefully. “And there’s something else, too. Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?” 

_There it is_. Issala hummed thoughtfully, her eyes never leaving his face, refusing to take a step back. She maintained a careful neutral expression on her face, even though he would see right through it, even though her pulse was racing. “The Qun’s secret police? Enforcers and spies, from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah that’s them. Or, well, us.” The Iron Bull’s face remained impassive. “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening.”

Issala covered her rising panic with what she hoped was a dry chuckle. Obviously he wasn’t here to drag her to Par Vollen, or she’d have been thrown on a ship headed north already. If he passed word to the Ben-Hassrath about Papa and the others, though… “And there’s the catch, isn’t there? Why would I want to hire a self-admitted Qunari spy into the service of the Inquisition?” 

The Iron Bull remained unperturbed. “My job is to send reports to keep my superiors happy, not mess around with your operations. I also _get_ reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Thedas. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people and your spymaster.” 

Issala couldn’t help but look at him incredulously, and he sighed, “Look, this whole Conclave thing was a massive fuck-up, and the Breach needs to be dealt as soon as possible. Whatever I am, I’m on your side. Best you hear about the whole spying thing from me up front—the Inquisition would have found out sooner or later.”

She was seriously considering saying yes despite everything, which meant that she was probably going insane. He wasn’t _not_ making a good case for himself and Void knew the Inquisition could use all the help they could get at this point. Cassandra had said the Inquisition would protect her. Nobody besides the Spymaster knew where her family was. _If_ she was smart, _if_ she was careful, it _could_ work. Issala made a show of looking conflicted, furrowing her brow and chewing her bottom lip. 

“And the Ben-Hassrath have no issue with you working with a _Tal-Vashoth_ Herald of the Chantry?” 

The Iron Bull only chuckled and shook his huge horned head. 

“Alright then. I suppose we could do worse than the Bull’s Chargers.” She held his gaze and dropped her voice to what she hoped was an intimidating, low growl, “You compromise our operations, our people, or the Inquisition in any way in these reports of yours, and I will cut off your balls and send them to the Ben-Hassrath myself. Are we clear?”

He was entirely unphased by her threat. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Krem!” he shouted to his lieutenant across the field. “Tell the men to finish drinking on the road—the Chargers just got hired!”

 _Well piss_ , she thought. _Another decision to explain to Rutherford and company after the fact._

***

Cullen was cultivating a massive headache, and it only grew worse when the rowdy Chargers made their way through Haven and up to Flissa’s tavern. Cassandra sent word ahead that Adaar had decided to hire the mercenaries, and the scramble to secure accommodations for them had thrown his schedule completely out of order.

 _Maker’s breath,_ he thought, _what has that blasted woman gotten us into now?_

His internal grousing was interrupted by the recruit in front of him failing to use his shield to block a strike from his sparring opponent yet again. Cullen stalked towards him and growled, “Maker’s sake boy, it’s a shield not a dinner plate! If this man were your enemy you’d be dead.” 

The young recruit stammered an apology, but the Commander ignored it. “Captain Rylen will show you the drills again while I—Rylen?”

The Captain was paying him no heed and instead watched Adaar trail after the Chargers with Cassandra and the others. She gave Rylen a smile from across the training grounds and Cullen could swear Rylen was _smirking_ back at her. Cullen coughed loudly and nudged Rylen’s shoulder. “Knight-Captain?”

“Ah—yes, Commander!” The man snapped his attention away from the Qunari woman and saluted smartly. Cullen sighed.

“I need you to finish running these shield drills while I attend to some Inquisition matters. We need these soldiers ready for a real fight, not a practice one.”

“Aye, Commander.” Rylen saluted again, but still his eyes wandered back to Adaar’s form as she made her way through the gates and to her quarters.

Cullen held his tongue and headed for his tent. Rylen and Adaar—the _Herald_ , he corrected himself—had been dancing around each other like randy nugs ever since she’d officially joined the Inquisition. A small, bitter part of him suspected she was doing it to get a rise out of him as she seemed to take every opportunity to do. As far as he knew nothing untoward had occurred, but he was starting to get sick of them eye-fucking each other whenever she was in Haven. That a former Templar and Marcher like Rylen would be so besotted with a Qunari mercenary both confused and annoyed Cullen, but he refused to vocalize it to his Captain. For now.

Objectively, he supposed he couldn’t fault Rylen for looking. As Cullen removed and hung his armor inside his tent he ruminated on the strange woman he had found himself allied with. There were few eligible women nearby and Adaar was not unattractive, for a Qunari. Though shorter and leaner in build than many he’d seen in Kirkwall and elsewhere, she was still a head taller than himself and Rylen, taller still than Cassandra and the other members of the Inquisition. It was unnerving sometimes, to have to look up at her face, to be regarded by those strange yellow-gold eyes that always seemed to see right through you. Coupled with her bronzed skin, silver hair, and blunted horns she stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of Haven. Yet she was always happy to chat and socialize with members of the Inquisition, to listen to a story or share a joke with Varric and Sera in the Tavern. Once suspicion of her involvement in the Divine’s murder had been dropped, she went out of her way to be friendly with Josephine and Leliana, and if the Seeker’s field reports were to be believed she was making strides to prove herself to Cassandra as well. Even the icy Madame de Fer and that strange elven apostate were cordial to her after she’d wormed her way into their good graces.

She did not, however, extend these same civilities to Cullen. Their formal introduction had been a terse one, after the Breach had been closed temporarily, and hadn’t progressed much past cold professionalism in the weeks following. If she did not have a sharp retort or an argument against one of his suggestions at the War Council meetings, if she didn't have a snide comment to throw his way on the training grounds, she was constantly correcting him when he referred to her as Qunari instead of a _Tal-Vashoth_. Sometimes in front of his soldiers, no less. What the devil did the distinction matter, anyway? It didn’t matter to most of the people living in this part of Thedas, and it certainly didn’t matter to the nobles or the Chantry. All they saw was a pair of horns attached to a mercenary rogue. For all her willingness to help the Inquisition, for all that she was doing as Herald, she was still a diplomatic disaster waiting to happen.

She was loud, she was stubborn, and she seemed set on being a pain in his arse whenever she could.

Cullen sighed again as he slid behind his desk and eyed the mountain of paperwork before him. She had been bestowed the mark, she was the only one with the power to close the rifts, and if the Maker had seen fit to send a Qunari to them in their hour of need he was not in any position to question it. He resolved to talk to Rylen, tomorrow, about propriety where the Blessed Herald of Andraste and the Captain of the Inquisition’s forces were concerned. Maker preserve him, this was not what he’d signed up for.


	3. Keep Your Friends Close

The detour to the Fallow Mire added several days to their return trip from the Hinterlands, but after hitting a dead end with the lone Grey Warden and fighting off waves of bears and bandits, Issala was desperate for a win for herself. Rescuing captured soldiers from the Avvar seemed as good a deed as any, and if she got satisfaction out of shooting down wisps or watching Solas light the throngs of undead on fire it was a nice bonus. It would allow her to continue to observe The Iron Bull out in the field as well.

Varric and Vivienne both politely refused to accompany the others to “a literal, stinking bog of a mire,” and made their way directly back to Haven. Warden Blackwall was sent along with instructions to update Leliana with his not-at-all-helpful information about the missing Wardens when he arrived. That left Issala, Cassandra, Solas, Sera, and The Iron Bull to deal with whatever trials the Mire would be throwing at them. Between the constant rain, the slick mud, and the fetid reminders of the plague that had decimated the region, it was an excellent backdrop for more bloody demons and literal walking corpses.

The Qunari warrior was already meshing well enough with the remaining members of the field team. He and Sera got on like a bush on fire, trading dirty jokes and brainstorming as many euphemisms for genitalia as possible. He was mostly respectful to Seeker Cassandra, complimenting her martial prowess and only _occasionally_ flirting with her just to see how flustered she got. Solas tried to start philosophical arguments about the Qun and how it was little better than slavery, but The Iron Bull either refuted the apostate’s accusations with frank answers or deflected his points all together.

“Look, the Qun isn’t perfect, but it works for a lot of people. I’m not here to convert or debate anyone anyway, I’m here to protect your skinny ass. Now are you gonna light that beacon so we can kill some undead assholes or what?”

Solas muttered something in Elvish that sounded _very_ rude, but got ready to light the veilfire sconce on the front of the beacon. This was the second they’d encountered in the Mire, and Issala hoped they’d be better prepared for the wave of undead and demons this time. 

“Three… two… one!”

The beacon was lit and the ground beneath their feet trembled. The elven apostate was barely able to get barriers up around the party before two screaming Terror demons popped out of the earth in front of Issala and Sera.

“Shit piss bugger-all!” Sera rolled sideways and slipped into stealth, a stream of colorful curses echoing off the rocks as she circled around to flank one of the demons. Arrows flew into its back, spraying ichor everywhere, and the elf materialized directly across the hill from where Issala was standing. “Take that, you humping nug-fuck!”

Issala ducked under a swipe from the other Terror’s claws, and took a rolling leap backwards. She could hear the rattling of undead drawing closer and the shouts of the others nearby as she nocked an arrow to her bow and let it fly. It hit the demon between where its eyes should be, and the thing let out a tremendous scream. Before she had time to shoot again, it disappeared into the ground with a loud _pop!_ and a flash of green light before reappearing directly in front of her, crowding her with its long limbs.

She stumbled back with a yell and felt the sting of the demon’s claws scrape across her arm. Before it could strike again, a greataxe sliced through the horrid creature and it fell to the ground, dissolving and bubbling away into nothing. The Iron Bull looked down at her, smirking. “You alright, Adaar?”

Issala fired an arrow into a corpse that was slowly staggering up on his right side. “I’ll be better once we deal with these fucking things.” She was grinning, though, and once she slipped into stealth and found a proper vantage point she was back in her element, firing arrows left and right as fast as she could. Solas had lit fire mines on the ground in front of him, and she was delighted when a corpse fell backwards from the force of her shot and immediately exploded in a gout of flame.

“Nice one!” The Iron Bull crowed, knocking the head off another corpse with the pommel of his greataxe.

Together the five of them made short work of the remaining undead, and when the last corpse dropped the veilfire light changed from its eerie blue to a more normal orange. Sera retrieved as many arrows from around the beacon as she could while Solas inspected Issala’s arm. 

“It’s fine, Solas, it just stings like shit,” she hissed. Solas only tutted at her, and prodded the wounds gently with his long fingers. Issala watched Cassandra study the map Scout Harding had given them as warm healing magic washed over her cuts.

“It looks like there is a rock shelter of sorts nearby,” the Seeker mused, gesturing to the west of where they stood. “It would be wise to try and make camp there before it gets too dark. Maker knows what else is lurking in this miserable place.”

Everyone agreed that this was an excellent idea. Issala and Cassandra led the way down the thoroughfare towards their potential campsite. Solas trailed behind them, and The Iron Bull and Sera were already back to laughing about something gross as they brought up the rear.

“What do you think of this Ben-Hassrath? Does he seem trustworthy?” the Seeker asked in a low voice. She was facing straight ahead but looking at Issala out of the corner of her eye. “I know that the Qun does not have...favorable views on Tal-Vashoth. Is he a danger to you, to your company?”

Issala kept her voice low and her body language neutral. “It’s crossed my mind a time or two. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories about abductions and re-education growing up. But if the Ben-Hassrath wanted to take me in, they would have done so long before the Chargers approached us.” 

She cocked her head as the sound of Sera’s guffaws and Solas’s grumbles reached them. The Iron Bull was questioning the apostate about his travels in the Fade and whether he had ever “banged any hot Fade ladies.” She couldn’t help but smile just a little.

“He’s definitely more than he appears to be. We can't be fooled by his whole ‘hedonistic mercenary’ persona. The Ben-Hassrath are extremely skilled spies and they are ruthless, dangerous. From what I’ve gathered, he’s one of their best.” Issala shrugged. “Still, he does really seem to want to help the Inquisition, and it can’t hurt if his superiors are aware that we’re trying to fix this damned mess. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and so on. Plus, he _is_ a mercenary under the Inquisition’s employ. There are rules we have to follow. Josephine and Leliana could absolutely ruin the Chargers’ reputation if need be.”

Cassandra hummed as she considered this information, and Issala chanced a glance over her shoulder. The Iron Bull was grinning at whatever comment Sera had made, but his eye was locked on Issala, watching her intently. He didn’t look away when she met his gaze, and his expression remained relaxed and carefree. She turned back to the road ahead of them and focused on the rock face that loomed behind the curtains of rain. She would have to tread very, very carefully around him.

***

By the time they made camp and lit fires in the lee of the rock shelter the rain was letting up a little and night was fast approaching. When the party chatter died down after supper was eaten, Bull sat to the side and cleaned grime and blood from his greataxe and armor. This was the best way to observe the others without drawing too much attention. He’d already made his assessments of most of the team, and he wanted this opportunity to watch Adaar more closely.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that she defied many of the expectations he’d set after reading the Ben-Hassrath’s orders. _Herald of Inquisition is Tal-Vashoth mercenary of unknown background. Infiltrate Inquisition to assess liability of Herald and to report on efforts to deal with Breach._ So far nothing he’d seen or heard indicated that Adaar was failing at her duties as Herald. She was nothing like those _savages_ back in Seheron. She fought hard, she listened well, and she seemed to be doing her best to help as many people as she could in the midst of this clusterfuck. He’d been pleased to hear that she was Valo-Kas; even as an all Tal-Vashoth company, Shokrakar and her crew had a decent professional reputation. Better still, it would make it easier to work the “fellow mercenary” angle with the Herald.

A week before they’d headed out to find the Warden Issala approached him on her way back from the blacksmith’s forge, new bow in hand. He’d made a throw-away comment about enjoying a new toy, and she handed it to him to inspect, eyes shining with excitement.

“I finally have something better than those dinky longbows Threnn found for me. I had to bring the pieces of my old bow to Harrit to reverse-engineer, and dammit if the cranky bastard didn’t deliver.”

Bull had turned the bow over in his hands. It was a Qunari design, well-crafted and elegant, with a leather-wrapped carved wood riser and scrolling metal limbs. “It’s good work,” he grunted as he handed the weapon back to her. “Reminds me of the longbows our archers use back home.”

Adaar had slung her bow on her back and turned to study him. “It is one, or it’s based on one now I suppose. Ashaad gave me his old bow shortly after I joined the Valo-Kas, said it would suit me better.” She dropped her voice to a deep, gruff tone. “ _Better than the shit you brought with you, Adaar. The humans don’t know how to make decent weapons fit for Qunari to use_.”

Bull had bristled slightly at that. He allowed a little annoyance to slip into his tone. “But you’re not Qunari. You’re _Tal-Vashoth_.”

The woman was unphased, and had dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. “Well, duh. I know that, we all know that, we just got used to everyone else not knowing or caring about the distinction. For all they get their smalls in a knot over the differences between a Fereldan and Antivan you’d think they’d learn that not everyone with horns follows the Qun.” She laughed—light and musical, which Bull found very pleasing to hear—and shrugged her shoulders. 

“I’m still trying to teach the _Commander_ the proper terms, but he seems happy to remain ignorant for the time being.”

Then, a runner had dragged her away before he could pry further, for some War Council meeting or another.

The remainder of the week had been filled with more short chats, always her stopping by his tent on her way to or from some task in Haven. She asked him questions, and he was happy to divulge little nuggets of information to keep her interested. Why he chose his name, his experiences in Seheron and with the Qun, stories about the Chargers. She never tried to argue with him about the various philosophies of the Qun, and only asked for more details when it related to him and his background. As far as he could tell, her opinions on matters concerning the Qun were either “I heard a little about that” or “I don’t know enough about it to judge.” Any time he tried to delve into any possible family or her past before the Valo-Kas she offered him a vague answer and then switched the topic to something else about himself or the Chargers or the Inquisition. He saw through this tactic easily, but didn’t want to press the issue while he was still working to gain her trust. He was patient, and he’d have plenty of time on the road to gather more intel.

Setting his cleaned weapon and armor inside his tent out of the rain, he mentally ran through his observations about the Herald as she sat across the fire, arguing with Sera about who was sharing a tent with whom during this leg of the trip.

_On the shorter side of normal, but in good shape. Long limbs and strong muscle, well-suited for archery and scouting. Her hand-to-hand needs a little work. Make subtle suggestion she ask Rylen to help her out when we get back to base. He likes her._

_Taking this Herald of Andraste crap in stride, obviously not Andrastian. Might not believe in the Maker either. Definitely doesn’t believe she was hand-delivered from the Fade. Should keep her grounded and on track but could cause more friction with Chantry._

_Fluent in Trade, speaks some Antivan, a little Orlesian. Admitted Qunlat is poor and out of practice: did she not speak it after abandoning the Qun, or did she have Tal-Vashoth parents who refused to teach her? Language skills would have been useful for Valo-Kas, will be useful for Inquisition. Good at talking to people and getting them to open up without showing her own hand. She’d have made a decent spy, under different circumstances._

She was studying him now, after Sera had marched into their tent in a huff. She observed him almost as often as he did her, and never shied away from his gaze or looked uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She wasn’t afraid of him, which was good. But she kept her guard up, friendly as she was, and that would make his job harder.

“Hey Adaar! Who named you? ‘Weapon’ is a good one, I’ll admit,” he called to her as he stood up from his spot by the fire.

She offered him that small, wry smile she always used when she was being evasive. “I did. I picked it when I joined the Valo-Kas.”

“Why ‘Adaar,’ though?”

“There were already two Ashaads, and I didn’t like the sound of ‘Ashaad Three’,” she said simply, then turned and ducked into the tent she was sharing with Sera. “Goodnight, The Iron Bull.”

He could still hear Sera and Adaar bicker quietly from across the camp as he entered his own tent. Apparently, the Herald of Andraste snored. _Might leave that tidbit out of the next report home._


	4. A Momentary Lapse of Reason

The sight of Haven’s gates in the distance were a pleasant one, for once. No matter how many times they’d stopped near a lake or river on their journey back from the Mire, Issala was unable to scrub the stink of that blighted place from her skin. Her leathers were now stained with splatters of black ichor and old blood, and all of her clothes were permeated with a sick mildewy smell. She was most looking forward to a real bath of sorts, and maybe burning everything she was wearing and carrying. That would be a hard thing to explain to Harrit and Threnn, though.

She was also exhausted, more than she’d been in a long time, from constantly keeping her guard up around The Iron Bull. For all the reservations she had about the Ben-Hassrath agent, he played the part of the charming mercenary extremely well. He was an excellent fighter and genuinely fun to travel with, but evading and dancing around his questions about her personal life without being too obvious about it made it all the more tiresome. But they wouldn’t need him in Redcliffe, hopefully, so leaving him behind in Haven would offer her some respite at least—

“Ah, Herald! You’re back early.”

Rylen was waiting for them at the gates instead of the Commander, which was a _most_ welcome change. Another handsome ex-Templar, except this one didn't make her feel like ripping her hair out every time he opened his mouth. Quite the opposite, in fact. And if their escalating flirtation annoyed another _certain_ ex-Templar, well that was just an added benefit. Issala sashayed up to him as if she didn’t look and smell like she’d been swimming in a backwater bog for a week straight, and gave him an easy grin.

“What an unexpected _pleasure_ , Captain. If I’d known you were greeting us, I’d have made an effort to look like less of a drowned nug.” She always used a light, playful tone around him, and damned if it didn't seem to work on the man.

The Captain offered her a grin of his own, one that creased the tattoos that decorated his chin. “The Commander is waiting for you in the Chantry, with the Ambassador an' Sister Leliana. An' I wanted to see you—that you an' your party had returned safe, I mean.”

“Such a _gentleman_ , Captain,” Issala purred. She ignored the winks The Iron Bull and Sera shot her, and Cassandra’s grunt of disapproval, as they passed through the gates. “A handsome face is such a welcome sight after slogging through the Mire.” That made him blush, and he looked _so_ adorable when he blushed.

“I, ah—thank you, Herald,” he stammered in his delightful Starkhaven brogue, but his gaze didn’t falter from her face. “I was wondering, actually, if you weren’t busy later, if… you would like to accompany me to the tavern tonight?”

“Are you asking me for _drinks_ , Captain?” She dropped her tone lower, and stepped closer to him. He had to look up at her now, but he didn’t step back. He never did. She liked that about him.

“Drinks an' dinner, if I may be so bold.” His voice dropped too, and there was something heated in his eyes that made Issala’s stomach flutter. An interesting development.

“You may, Captain,” she laughed, and turned away from him, hips rolling as she moved up the steps through the gate. “I shall see you later this evening.”

_That was unexpected,_ she mused, _I didn’t think he had it in him._ All their weeks’ of teasing and flirting were extremely fun, but she hadn’t expected it to go beyond that—not from a Chantry human, and certainly not from a former Templar. Being the Herald of Andraste had proved to be the worst kind of cockblock, much worse than her horns had ever been. She wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to bed a handsome man like Rylen, though, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t been wondering what he looked like out of his armor. Perhaps it would be a welcome distraction for them both.

That kernel of anticipation faded as she steeled herself to enter the Chantry. Issala knew what this meeting's main topic would revolve around, and she knew that _certain parties_ would be unhappy with her decision. She made her usual supply stops along the way: there were bundles of herbs for Mother Giselle and her healers, and creature samples to drop off for Minaeve and her Tranquil. As she approached the heavy door of the War Council room she could hear Cassandra and the Commander arguing.

“— _still_ determined to go after the rebel mages? Haven’t you been able to make her see sense yet?”

“She only wants to talk with the Grand Enchanter, Commander,” came Cassandra’s blunt reply. ”We are agreed that it would be prudent to assess the situation in Redcliffe before we approach the Templars—”

“We’ve been through this, Commander,” Issala said boldly, striding through the door into the chamber. His expression changed from frustration to annoyance as soon as she entered, but he snapped to attention nonetheless. “The reports coming out of Redcliffe are concerning, and they need to be investigated sooner rather than later.”

The Commander’s brow furrowed. “If word that the Inquisition was seen seeking help from the mages gets out, the Templars may refuse to aid us at all—”

_Stubborn, stubborn man_. “Well, that will make the decision easier for us then, won’t it?” Issala shook her head in irritation and switched the subject. “Has Cassandra given the report on the soldiers’ rescue yet?”

Josephine picked up on the change of topic with her uncanny smooth grace. “She has given us a brief summary, Herald, but we wanted to wait for you to give us the full details.”

“All members of the patrol are accounted for, though some sustained serious injuries from their capture. They should be back in Haven shortly, they were travelling about a day or two behind us. We provided them with some basic supplies for their wounded, but they’ll need more extensive care once they arrive. The hostile Avvar have been… dealt with,” she grimaced, recalling how that bastard Avvar bruiser had very nearly squashed her with his maul on one too many occasions.

“Amund the Skywatcher may join us at Haven after a time. Currently, he's travelling between his clan’s Holdings to deliver news of the ‘Lowlander Herald of Andraste, who can mend the tears in the Lady’s skin’.” Josephine scribbled something down in her notes while the Commander scowled with displeasure.

“Did you really have to recruit a _barbarian_ into the Inquisition? Did you ever think about how this would look—”

Issala rounded on him with her most authoritative glare. “He’s a shaman, a priest, _Commander_ , and a highly-respected one among the Avvar. You were the one who told me to ‘seek ways to expand the Inquisition’s influence,’ and this is one of them. If you wanted me to ‘seek ways to expand the Inquisition's influence _, but only from those who will appease the Commander’s sensibilities_ ,’ you should have made your instructions clearer,” she snapped.

Cassandra and Josephine were looking on in mild shock at their exchange, Leliana had something like amusement on her face. The Commander was glowering at her and continued to harry the subject like a mad dog after a rabbit.

“I understand that because you are a Qunari you might not be aware of how things work here in the south, but—”

“I am not a _Qunari_ ,” she gritted between her teeth,”I am _Vashoth_. You understand nothing, Commander.”

Now it was his turn to look shocked. “I hardly think the distinction matters at present, we need to—”

“ _IT MATTERS TO ME_!” Issala shouted, slamming both fists onto the war table. Weeks’ worth of frustration, anger, and exhaustion boiled out of her all at once. The markers and pins scattered on the table surface rattled violently, and all three of the humans took a step back. Even the Commander had the good sense to look alarmed at her outburst. _Now they get to witness the ox-woman's temper._ She placed her hands flat on the table and took a slow breath to steady herself. Her eyes locked on the Commander’s as her voice became a menacing growl.

“I have been busting my ass for this Inquisition for weeks, throwing myself at mages and Templars and bandits and demons and fucking _rifts in the bloody Fade_ ,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Recruiting people, feeding people, helping people, and yet with every decision I make you treat me like an idiot ox-beast. You expect me to pretend to be the Herald of a religion I don’t even follow, navigate my way through all this bullshit with a smile on my face, but you cannot grant me the simple _respect,_ ” she emphasized the word by jabbing a finger towards the Commander’s face, “The barest amount of _respect_ by calling me what I actually am.”

The room had gone silent. Josephine looked positively aghast at her outburst, and Leliana and Cassandra’s brows were raised so high they risked flying off their foreheads. The Commander was rubbing the back of his neck, face flushed, and opened his mouth to reply but Issala cut him off.

“I am not done, _Commander_.” She straightened up to her full height and looked down at him, eyes blazing. “If I wanted to be treated like a tool to be used, I would have joined the Qun long ago. All you care about is what this fucking mark on my hand can do, and I've grown tired of it. Your lot are just as bad as the Qun as far as I'm concerned. If you can’t do me the decency of treating me like a person and not an object, then _fuck_ you andyour Inquisition.”

Issala spun on her heel and stalked towards the door, slamming it open with all the force she could muster and slamming it closed again the second she was on the other side. Fuming, she marched through the Chantry and out into the late afternoon sun, pointedly avoiding looking anyone in the eye. By the time she got to her quarters, though, her anger was slowly being replaced by mortification. She paced the interior of the small cabin after she shucked off her leathers and her boots, and started peeling off her dirty clothing.

_Great job Adaar, you big fucking idiot,_ she berated herself while rummaging through her trunk for some clean underthings. These she tossed onto her bed, followed by a fresh shirt and the only other pair of trousers she owned that actually fit her. _The Commander_ definitely _won’t think you’re a vulgar savage ox-woman now that you’ve cussed him out loud enough for the whole of Haven to hear._ She plunked herself on the edge of her bed, head in her hands, and let out a frustrated growl. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

She flopped backwards onto her bedspread and glowered up at the ceiling. All her earlier anticipation at meeting up with Rylen had completely disappeared; now she just felt embarrassed and dejected. Issala had half a mind to send him a missive asking to postpone until another night or cancel entirely—there was a stack of reports on her desk she needed to look through still, repairs to make on her armor, there were always a million things that required the Herald's attention but…

She deserved a bit of fun after all she'd been through. And _oh_ wouldn't it be a perfect up-yours that the Commander's favorite Capitan wanted to fraternize with the big mean Vashoth. Their _Herald_.

The brief image of Rylen's handsome face making a blissfully obscene expression underneath her flashed through her mind. Screw _it,_ she thought, and rolled off the bed to stand up. She tugged her hair out of the tight braids she usually wore and grabbed a piece of flannel that lay next to basins of water that someone had set out for her. The water was tepid now, but she didn’t care. A quick scrub-down would be good enough to go with clothes that didn't smell like death. Maybe she'd even wear her hair down for a change.

When she stepped from her cabin at supper-time, her mood had lifted somewhat. Some hot food, good company, and strong drinks might be enough to put her shameful outburst out of her mind until later, at least. Then she would have to plan out a somewhat sincere apology to the Commander.


	5. Mutually-Assured Satisfaction*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for smut. NSFW, obvs.

They made it as far as the stoop of her cabin before Rylen pulled her flush to him and fisted his hand in her hair, to drag her face down to his. Lips captured lips in a searing kiss that made Issala squeak in surprise. She slid her hands under his coat and grasped the fabric of his shirt to anchor herself to him, her teeth tentatively nipping his bottom lip. Rylen rumbled his approval into her mouth, tongues darting out to caress briefly before they separated, both gasping for air.

Issala rested her forehead against his, breathing hard, hands roaming down his chest. “Come inside,” she whispered, “Please.”

One of Rylen’s hands drifted down her back and squeezed her arse. “I’d be delighted, lass.”

They stumbled through the doorway together, shedding boots and coats in a tangle across the floor. Rylen latched the door closed behind them while Issala stoked the fire on the other side of the cabin. Embers caught and flickered back to life, casting an orange glow and shifting shadows around the room. When she turned back around to face him, he was leaning his hip against the edge of her desk, his gaze sweeping up and down her body. Issala tugged the tie from the end of her braid and combed her fingers through her hair, silver waves falling loose around her shoulders, as she regarded him. Now, she felt more than a little nervous—what if he changed his mind when confronted with the reality of her race and her height? It wouldn’t be the first time a human had reacted that way. Her fingers twisted through the ends of her locks while she fought to push past this sudden anxiety.

Rylen caught on to her hesitation, brow furrowing, and pushed himself off the edge of the desk. He held his hand out to her, beckoning. “C’mere, lass,” he murmured. Issala slid her fingers between his, and he tugged her close to him once more. “Penny for yer thoughts?”

“You still have time to change your mind, you know,” she teased, “It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I’m not exactly a swooning, dainty lady.”

He snorted at her admission and shook his head. “I’m no shy Chantry boy, Adaar,” he growled. His brogue was thicker now, his voice hoarse and deep. The way he rolled the ‘R’ in her name brought that pleasant, fluttering heat back and eased some of her nervousness. 

“I like strong, beautiful women—” His free hand grabbed her hip and pulled her tight to him, so that she could feel his clothed cock press against the top of her thigh and _fuck_ he was already _hard_ , “—two qualities that ye happen to have in spades.”

Issala bit back a growl of her own as she looked down at Rylen. His eyes were dark in the low light, his gaze hungry, no hesitation in his expression whatsoever. His face was a picture of pure lust and need. “I won’t be gentle,” she cautioned and rocked her thigh against him. The movement earned her a quiet groan and the sting of his teeth scraping over her collarbone through the fabric of her shirt.

“Don’t _want_ gentle,” he muttered against her shoulder.

That was enough to quash the rest of her anxiety. Her free hand flew up into his hair, fingers tangling in the waves at the nape of his neck, and pulled his head back and to the side. She dove down and nipped his earlobe with her teeth, tugging at the soft flesh with her lips, then moved up along the rim of his ear. He released her other hand with a surprised moan and dug his fingers into her other hip. “Good,” Issala whispered into his ear before trailing down the side of his exposed jaw and neck, alternating teeth with lips, soothing sharp bites with soft kisses.

Rylen bucked his hips against her with another moan and squeezed his fingers into her flesh with bruising force before easing his grip and sliding one hand between them. He fumbled the ties of her trousers loose just as she gave his hair a final sharp tug, both of her hands ghosting over his shoulders to cup his face and tilt his chin up for another kiss. She caught his lower lip between her teeth again, biting harder this time, and Rylen retaliated with feral enthusiasm. He dipped a hand under the waistband of her trousers, down the plane of her stomach and under the hem of her smalls, fingers brushing through her short curls, and lower still. When his finger slid through her slick heat to the wetness pooling between her thighs, she broke their kiss with a soft gasp and pressed her mouth against his forehead, hands grasping his shoulders tight.

“Maker, Adaar, yer _soaked_ already,” Rylen groaned. A second finger joined the first, both sliding in tandem in slow circles up and over and around her clit—just gentle enough to tease, enough to make her ache for more pressure. Issala rolled her hips against his hand in time with his movements, thigh pressing firm against his cock, mouth open and panting into his hair. A quiet whine escaped her when his teeth found her collarbone again, and he bit and sucked his way over to the hollow of her throat. His fingers dove further, seeking more of her heat, and then—

“ _Fuck_ , Rylen!” she keened, hips stuttering and losing rhythm for a moment. His fingers slid into her cunt and she heard herself moan as he drove them in and out at a deliberate pace, the heel of his palm pressed against her pearl and her sensitive inner labia. She could feel how wet she was, how easily his flesh moved against hers, and she ground herself against his hand. He curled his fingers towards his palm and she gasped. He did it again with more pressure, and she jerked her hips against him, panting, “ _Again_.”

Rylen sucked and bit the side of her throat, hard enough to bruise, curling his fingers inside her at her command. “Like that?” he growled against her skin. 

“Yes—”

“Faster?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

Now he was fucking her with his fingers, fingertips curling and pressing against the sweet spot inside her cunt, his thumb rubbing over her slick bud. Her hands were tangled in his hair as she clung to him, nails scraping and dragging across his scalp. She watched the light and shadow dance on the ceiling above her, focused on the heat gathering and contracting in her belly, on the wet sounds Rylen’s fingers made, on the obscene words he was whispering against her throat.

“Yer so fucking _tight_ , lass, so _wet_ —” His voice had been reduced to a hoarse rasp; his thumb circled her clit faster in time with his fingers. Some dim part of her brain was aware that he was palming himself with his other hand, “—I want ye to _ride_ me, Adaar, I want ye to _fuck_ my cock with your tight, hot _cunt_ —”

The only sound she could manage was a strangled cry; her body was beginning its slow climb to climax, heat and electricity and pure sensation diffusing through her limbs, thighs and arms shaking. Eyes screwed shut, nose buried in Rylen’s hair and breathing the scent of sweat and soap and musk, Issala was beyond the point of reason or coherency. His steady rhythm worked her to the edge, over that final crest of pleasure, and she came undone with a loud, shuddering sob.

Rylen swore softly as she fluttered and contracted around his fingers, his hand slowing to gentle movements while she rode out her climax. After what felt like eons, she relaxed and released her grip on his hair. She winced slightly when he withdrew his fingers from her, and he pressed a light kiss to her throat with a chuckle.

“Ye alright, lass?”

Issala blinked away the haze clouding her vision and stepped back on wobbly legs. Rylen was licking and sucking her slick from his fingers, and she growled at him, “You’re wearing too many clothes, Captain.”

He smirked around his fingers and withdrew them from his mouth with a hum. “Aye, I think we both are, lass. What’re we gonna do about that?”

Her reply was to pull her shirt up over her head and toss it towards her desk. Her trousers and breastband followed, and then she was standing in front of him in only her smalls. His smirk was gone now, replaced with a look of desperate need as he palmed and stroked himself through his trousers. His eyes were fixed on her hands, watching her pluck and pull at the top hem of the thin cotton covering.

“How does my cunt taste, Captain?” she purred, letting her smalls slide down her hips and thighs to the floor, kicking them aside.

He stripped his shirt off and took a step towards her; she moved back until her calves met the edge of her bed. “ _Like sin_ ,” he growled, and surged forward to try and pull her down onto the mattress with him.

Issala twisted around him and pushed him down on the bed. They landed in a tangle of limbs, with her straddling Rylen’s hips and her hands pinning him down by his shoulders. Her silver locks formed a curtain around their faces as she leaned down, their lips a hair’s breadth apart. She could still smell her scent on his lips, and it spurred her to grind down against his erection until he was groaning and writhing under her.

“I’ll show you sin, Rylen,” she whispered, rearing back so she could shift down the bed to deal with the remainder of his clothes. She made short work of the ties at his waist, peeling his trousers and smalls down in one smooth motion, nails leaving long scratches in the flesh of his thighs, and leaving them tangled around his ankles. With a wicked grin, she leaned forward and brushed her fingertips along the length of his cock. He was fully hard, pulsing softly under her fingers, and when she dragged her thumb across the wet, glistening head he groaned and bucked in her hand.

“Yer a fucking temptress, Adaar, a tease— _ah, fuck!_ ” His tirade was interrupted when she enveloped the head of his cock with her mouth and dragged the tip of her tongue against the sensitive underside. He bucked again, and Issala lay her forearm across his waist to keep him pressed down to the bed. She could feel the muscles of his stomach flexing as she swirled her tongue up and around, tasting the salt of his precome, and when she flicked her eyes up to his face he was gazing back at her, completely enraptured with how she was working him. A hum of satisfaction had him groaning again, and with a final swirl of her tongue she released him with a wet pop. 

He slid a hand into her hair and she let him pull her forward until she was straddling him again. She ran one hand up through the hair on his chest, fingertips digging into his muscled shoulder, and slowly rubbed her still-slick slit along the underside of his cock.

“Maker, Adaar, please,” Rylen gasped, hips shifting to try and line himself up with her cunt.

“Please what?”

“Please, I need you to fu— _MAKER, FUCK!_ ” he cried out when Issala rolled her hips and sank over the head of his cock in one smooth motion. His head was thrown back against the mattress and he bit his lip to suppress another cry as she took more of his length inch by inch.

They were both sweating and panting by the time she had him fully inside her. With a growl she rocked against him and his hands flew to her hips. Rylen guided her motions as she began to ride him in earnest, and her pace soon became relentless. Her senses were full of the thick stretch of his cock, the heat in his gaze, the staccato sound of flesh hitting against flesh. She could tell he was fast approaching his own end: the muscles of his thighs and stomach were tightening, flexing under her, and he was unable to hold back any more cries of pleasure.

“Adaar I—I can’t— _fuck_ —” His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arse, pulling her down around him, his own thrusts upward becoming more erratic and frantic. Issala raked her nails down his chest and squeezed the walls of her cunt around him—those sensations tipped him over the edge, and with a hoarse, shuddering shout Rylen hilted himself inside her, eyes shut tight as his cock pulsed and throbbed and filled her with his spend.

She stayed joined with him until his body relaxed and his breathing evened. With a satisfied groan, she lifted herself up off him and rolled to the edge of the bed, digging through the drawer of her nightstand for a pair of rags, one of which she passed to him. As they both cleaned themselves up in comfortable silence, the sound of the second watch bell rang in the distance.

Rylen’s head jerked up and he cursed softly. “I don’t want to fuck an’ run, lass, but—”

Issala laughed and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “It’s late, and we both have our duties to attend to in the morning,” she said. “Let me do the honors and kick you out now, Captain.” She rose from the bed and began collecting the clothing that was strewn about the cabin, tossing his shirt and coat to him. While she tugged her wrinkled shirt over her horns and head, he was fastening his trousers around his waist.

“Yer a most gracious host, lass,” he chuckled, “An’ an amazing bedmate to boot.” Rising from the bed, he donned his shirt and grabbed the boots Issala held out for him. After pulling them on and tucking his coat in the crook of his elbow, Rylen drew her close to him and pulled her down for a soft kiss. “‘Night, Lady Adaar.”

Issala gave his hand a gentle squeeze before shooing him out the door, “Goodnight, Captain.”

Door latched once more, she banked the fire before crawling under her blankets and into bed. She closed her eyes with a satisfied sigh, and was fast asleep within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is easily the filthiest thing I've ever written.
> 
> Next up: some Cullen POV, and a field trip to Redcliffe


	6. Matters of Respect

It was unusual for Leliana to call for a meeting this early in the morning, but Cullen was already awake and dressed when one of her runners arrived with the summons. Nightmares, even more violent than normal, woke him many times through the night. He had given up on getting a decent night’s sleep and was up working hours before sunrise. He was already bone-weary with exhaustion and certain that the lack of sleep would make the withdrawal pains that came later in the day ten times worse. Cullen’s mind wandered once more to the emergency lyrium ration hidden in his desk drawer. 

_Just this once,_ that needling, hungry part of his mind whispered, _just this once, and you’ll feel_ so _much better. Stronger. Satisfied_. 

Instead, he flew out of his tent across the training grounds with a few barked orders in his lieutenants’ direction. His duties for the day would keep his mind occupied for the better part of the morning, at least, and Cullen mentally flipped through the long list as he marched through the doors of the Chantry.

_Weapons requisitions. Another batch of fresh recruits to assess. Missives that didn’t get addressed last night. The patrol rescued from the Fallow Mire will be arriving soon. Talk to Adan about stronger headache remedies. Update guard rotations_ —

He snapped himself out of his reverie when he reached the War Council room. Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra had not yet arrived. The Herald was by herself, preoccupied with setting out baskets of rolls she must have gotten from Flissa’s on her way over, and a pot of that strong black Antivan coffee she and Josephine were so fond of.

She didn’t look up from her task when Cullen entered the room, and he was struck with how completely _relaxed_ she seemed. Gone was the usual tense set of her shoulders and body—she moved with an easy, fluid grace around her side of the table. Even her appearance was far more relaxed than he’d ever seen: he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Adaar in anything but her leather armor, and he had never seen her hair loose and unbound around her shoulders. Dark silver, like polished steel, against the rich bronze skin of her neck. The sight was quite fetching, in all honesty.

_Fetching? What in the world are you doing, thinking of the_ Herald of Andraste _like that?_

The scuff of Cullen’s boot against the stone floor alerted her to his presence. She whirled around with a soft _oh_!, and her posture stiffened upon seeing him in the doorway. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, blushing, guilty at being caught staring. Then he remembered her angry words from yesterday, and his guilt deepened.

“I, ah, didn’t mean to startle you, Herald,” he muttered. He moved around the opposite end of the table to his usual spot as she poured herself a tin cup of coffee.

“It’s fine,” came her terse reply. An awkward silence settled between them as she stared into her cup. After a few beats, Cullen opened his mouth, intending to apologize for yesterday, but she beat him to it.

“I owe you an apology for my shameful behavior yesterday, Commander,” she said quietly, still not looking up at him. “It was incredibly unfair and unbecoming of me. It won’t happen again.” Now, she raised her eyes to his, a look of embarrassment flicking across her face.

Cullen sighed and leaned against the edge of the table. This subdued deference of hers was a far cry from her usual stubbornness, and he wasn’t sure that he preferred it. “What you said wasn’t exactly untrue. We’ve asked much of you in your role as Herald and you’ve continued to exceed our expectations, often without thanks.” Her cheeks pinked slightly at that admission, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “I myself have done a poor job of showing you the appreciation and respect you deserve. I will endeavor to do better in the future.”

That earned him a smile from the Herald, small but genuine, and her posture relaxed again. “I—thank you, Commander. I hope—” The sound of footsteps and the chatter of the others on their way towards them caught her attention, and when she turned her head back towards the door the side of her neck was exposed. A line of deep, purple bruises marred the skin just under her ear and trailed underneath the edge of her shirt collar.

Cullen sucked in a breath at the sight. “Maker, your neck—”

Adaar whipped back around, pulling her hair back in front of her shoulder to hide the marks. Her face was flushed deep crimson. “Oh, it’s—don’t worry about it—” she stammered.

The Commander’s eyes narrowed, then widened. _Oh. OH._ His eyes searched for something else to look at in the room, anything but her blushing face. _Had she and Rylen_ — “Ah… right.”

The door to the War Room swung open as they both tried to school their faces into something close to neutral expressions. Cassandra and Josephine entered first, both yawning, followed by a bright-eyed Leliana. Together they made short work of the coffee and food the Herald set out, before Leliana drew a roll of parchment from her sleeve and passed it to Cullen.

“My agents stationed outside Redcliffe sent word late last night. The news is… not good.” 

The Commander skimmed over the missive quickly before passing it along to Josephine. “A new kind of rift has appeared? Do they know why it’s behaving differently than the others?” He watched the Herald read next, a frown crossing her face as she flexed her Marked hand almost unconsciously.

Leliana sighed and stared down at the map before them. “They do not. Only that it’s larger than the others the Herald has closed in the area and seems to affect or hinder movement around it.” The Herald and Cassandra exchanged pained looks with each other while the Spymaster continued, “There’s more. Several scouts have reported sightings of Tevinter mages in and around the village.”

Josephine cried out in alarm, “Tevinters?! What could they be doing this far to the south?”

“Nothing good, I wager,” the Herald grumbled, pressing her fingers into her brow. She looked drained, and Cullen felt a little twist of pity for her in his chest. “Harrit is doing some repairs on my gear and he won’t be finished until supper-time, but we could leave in the morning before first light. What do you think, Cass?”

The other woman grunted in approval. “The sooner we deal with this new rift and these Tevinters, the better. Who else shall we bring?” 

“Solas. He might have some insight into why this rift is acting strange,” Adaar hummed, drumming her fingers on her chin as she thought. “And Lady Vivienne, if she agrees to accompany us. She works well with Solas in combat, at least, and she might be able to get information out of any Loyalists or other Circle mages who’ve gotten caught up with the rebels.”

Cullen nodded. The Herald’s reasoning was as solid as any, and she always chose her team carefully. “Anyone else? Perhaps Blackwall, or The Iron Bull for additional backup?”

“Bull will draw too much attention—well, more attention that I already do,” she laughed without any humor. “Blackwall’s expressed interest in helping train the newest recruits, so I’d rather put him at your disposal, Commander. No, I think a small party will be best for this mission. Sound like a plan?”

They all nodded in approval then, and the Commander added another mental note to his long list to talk to Blackwall afterward. A Grey Warden, and one experienced with recruitment at that, would be a huge asset to him and Rylen for the time being. There were only a few other matters on the agenda for the remainder of the meeting, and Cullen’s mood was slightly improved as they drew things to a close—despite the threat in Redcliffe, despite his lack of sleep, and despite the image of Adaar and Rylen in a tangled mess of limbs that flicked through his mind more than once.

***

The rift outside the gates of Redcliffe was a different sort indeed, and when Issala finally managed to knit the tear in the Veil closed, even Vivienne's face was glistening with exertion. Several waves of demons had come forth, each stronger than the last, and there had been a few close calls.

Cassandra was the first to speak up in the silence that followed, concern coloring her voice. “What… was that?”

Issala massaged the palm of her Marked hand. That rift had taken far more of her willpower than normal to close, and her hand and wrist were beset with an awful pins-and-needles feeling. “The report was right—it affected movement around it. Did you feel how things seemed to move faster or slower in some places?”

Solas’s face was creased in a deep frown. “The Veil is incredibly weak here. And not just weak, but _altered_ in a way I have never seen before.” He exchanged a worried look with Vivienne. “We must tread carefully.”

An Inquisition scout was approaching them from the other side of the now opened gate, and Issala slung her bow across her back. “Something’s not right,” she muttered to her companions, “Be on your guard.”

As the scout updated them on the situation, her concern grew. No one was expecting their arrival, despite Grand Enchanter Fiona’s invitation in Val Royeaux. There were more than a few Tevinter mages, and soldiers, in the village and in the Arl’s castle. The Arl himself and his men were nowhere to be found. An elf in Circle mage’s robes approached to greet them then, oblivious to the dark looks the party was exchanging among themselves. He also had not expected the Inquisition, but invited them to parlay with their new leader anyway.

“Magister Alexius is in charge now, but he’s not yet arrived. You can speak to the _former_ Grand Enchanter in the meantime,” he relayed. Issala kept her face calm and motioned for the others to follow behind her and the mage to the village tavern. She exchanged a grimace with the Seeker.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Fiona herself didn’t recall their meeting in the Summer Bazaar, apparently _hadn’t_ been to the city since the Conclave, though both Cassandra and Solace had been there to witness the meeting. The Grand Enchanter had, instead, pledged the rebel mages to the service of this Tevinter Magister. At this point, Issala’s patience had worn razor thin. She was about to berate the mage for making a monumentally stupid mistake, when Alexius himself oozed through the door with his entourage.

She immediately disliked his sneering, his posturing. He ignored Fiona and the rest of Issala’s party entirely, his beady eyes fixed on her face in a way that made her deeply uncomfortable. Putting on a brave face, she cut through their introductions with a brisk and firm tone. “We need mages to close the Breach.”

The Magister’s smile was slimy and cold. “Right, to business!” He gestured to a nearby table and slid into the chair across from her. “It’s refreshing to meet someone so goal-oriented.” He ordered his son, who seemed a much less objectionable sort, to fetch a scribe, and turned back to Issala.

“Closing the Breach is no small feat. There is no telling how many mages will be required,” the Magister smirked.

Issala kept her face relaxed, her posture straight. “I’ll take every mage you can give me.”

“There will have to be—” Alexius’s attention snapped to something behind her, and he leapt out of his chair. “Felix!”

The son had returned, limping, face pale and sallow. Issala stood up in time for the young man to collapse against her with a grunt. She caught him, and felt a small piece of parchment slip into her hand. Alexius dashed around the table, his face twisted with concern.

“Please forgive my clumsiness, my Lady,” Felix panted as she helped him stand upright. She curled her fist around the parchment and gently passed him over into the arms of his father.

“Felix, are you alright?” The Magister’s sneering and posturing had vanished, replaced with naked worry.

Felix managed to give his father a pained smile. “I’m fine, father.”

“Come, I will fetch your powders. Fiona!” he snapped over his shoulder at the Grand Enchanter, “I require your assistance back at the castle.” And to Issala, as he led his son out of the tavern, “Forgive me, my friend. We shall conclude this business at a later date.”

As the others watched the Magister and his entourage leave in stunned silence, Issala unfurled the parchment to read in the dim light:

> **_Come to the Chantry. You are in danger._ **

She passed the note to Cassandra to inspect; Solas and Vivienne read the text over her shoulders.

“Curious indeed,” Solas mused. “It could be a trap.”

Vivienne snorted, “That much is obvious, _Master_ Solas.”

Issala caught Cassandra’s gaze, a sharp grin on her face. “Probably a trap. Wanna check it out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block who? We don't know her.
> 
> Thank you guys for all your kind comments and your kudos, and thanks for joining me on this wild dumb ride ♥♥♥


	7. Time and Time Again

“The Magister used _time magic_.”

“Yep.”

“To get to the rebel mages _before_ the Inquisition.”

“Uh huh.”

“Because he’s part of a _cult_ who’s obsessed with you and your Mark.”

“Apparently.”

Cullen threw up his hands as he paced behind the War Table. “You realize this all sounds insane, yes?”

Issala could only shrug. “Completely insane. But the evidence supports it.” She leaned forward, knuckles resting on the edge of the table, and sighed. “The ‘Vint who came back with us, Pavus, claimed he worked with the Magister on developing this magic while he was his apprentice, though it was only in the theoretical stages. Solas and Vivienne confirmed that it _may_ be possible in practice, now that the Breach has disrupted the Veil.”

“Can this Pavus be trusted?”

Cassandra made a disgruntled noise. “I was suspicious of him at first. But he does seem to want to help,” she conceded. “If what he says is true, these Venatori are a dangerous enemy that needs to be dealt with.” 

“Not to mention the political turmoil a group of hostile Tevinters occupying Redcliffe will cause,” Josephine murmured. “But we cannot try and take the Arling back by force. An ‘Orlesian’ Inquisition’s army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war.”

Issala began pacing on her own side of the table. “He’s got us caught between a rock and a hard place, the clever bastard. Do we have any other options?”

“We did receive his invitation to ‘finish negotiations’ this morning. He specifically mentioned that only _you_ were to attend. It’s surely a trap,” Leliana said.

“So we can’t use soldiers, and there’s no way in the Void I’m waltzing into that meeting alone, to my death,” Issala sighed. She bit her lip while she mulled their options over. “Is there a way into the castle other than the main gate? A watercourse, a sewer?”

Leliana’s eyes glinted. “There _is_ a secret tunnel under the lake, an escape route for the family. Too narrow for our soldiers to get through undetected, but some of our agents could. We would need a distraction, though.”

Cullen drummed his fingers on the table and nodded. “Perhaps the meeting with the Herald this Magister asked for? It’s risky, but it could work.”

“Fortunately, you’ll have help!” All five jumped in surprise when the door to the War Room slammed open. The mage Pavus strolled through with a dramatic swish of his robes and a twirl of his mustache.

Issala rolled her eyes at him, suppressing a grin. Somehow she’d grown quite fond of him on their ride back to Haven. “Were you waiting outside the door this whole time just to make your grand entrance?”

The handsome Tevinter winked at her. “My timing is nothing if not impeccable, my dear.” His face grew serious as he addressed Leliana and Cullen. “Your agents won’t be able to get past Alexius’s magic on their own. I can help.”

“Pavus helps our agents sneak through this secret passage into Redcliffe castle, while a small party and I distract Alexius,” Issala mused out loud. She glanced at Cullen with a little trepidation—he was the least enthusiastic, out of all the advisors, about aiding the rebel mages, even after the situation in Redcliffe had come to light. “What do you think, Commander, could it work?”

Cullen was frowning, but he nodded. “If you are determined to help the mages instead of going to the templars—” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “The Tevinter presence in Ferelden needs to be addressed as soon as possible. The plan is a solid one, but it puts you in the most danger. We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this, Adaar.”

His conciliatory tone and his use of her name surprised her, and made her smile. “Good thing you don’t need to order me, then. The Iron Bull can accompany me, he’ll be happy to stand around and look intimidating.” She looked to Cassandra, question on her lips, and the Seeker nodded.

“I will accompany the Herald as well. We will not allow the Magister to get his way.”

“I’ll fill The Iron Bull in, take Pavus to Harrit to get his gear sorted out, and we’ll leave in the morrow. Good?” Issala asked the room. All nodded in agreement. The plan was set; Issala prayed that nothing would make shit go sideways.

***

The ride up to Redcliffe was quiet, tense. Adaar and the Seeker rode side-by-side most of the way, but they said little to each other. Bull rode behind them at an easy pace. The Spymaster, Red, and her group had ridden with them until just before the Crossroads, then split off towards wherever the secret passage entrance into the castle was. The ‘Vint, Dorian, went with them. Bull had been observing him closely, but beyond being a little smug and stupidly handsome, nothing about the mage set off any warning bells. He did truly seem to want to help the Inquisition with the mess in Redcliffe, even if it meant screwing over his former patron. Not a bad sort, for a ‘Vint.

Before they left Haven, once Adaar had briefed him, she’d asked him to keep mention of the situation in Redcliffe out of his reports. For now. _Don’t need the Ben-Hassrath getting their smalls in a knot over time magic and ‘Vints sticking their noses where they don’t belong_ , she’d said. _I only have the energy to deal with one political fuck-up at a time_. Bull was inclined to agree with her—not that Red would have let anything compromising past her anyway. The woman was damn good at her job. His superiors seemed satisfied with the information she allowed him to feed them at present, and he saw no reason to cause worry. He was far more comfortable with the Ben-Hassrath and the Qun being far away, _over there_ , for the time being.

The trio crested the last hill before Redcliffe and made for the village gates, and Adaar spurred her horse ahead a little to take point, with Bull and Cassandra flanking her. As they passed under the gates, he observed the Tal-Vashoth’s subtle transformation into ‘Herald mode’—posture becoming straight and graceful atop her grey mare, hands relaxing around the reins, head held high and proud. Harrit had done something with her leather armor, dyed it a deep dark red that was almost black, and oiled it to the point that it gleamed even under the overcast sky. Her silver hair was braided tight to her head, coiled and pinned in elaborate swirls under her horns. All in all, she cut an intimidating figure—many mages and villagers stopped to stare from the side of the road as they rode towards the castle bridge.

Bull pulled his gaze from Adaar to scan the crowds, and those focused on their tasks beyond. There was a mage with a staff in the Tevene style, leaning casually against a shed. A woman hanging laundry, clothes with fabrics not common this far south. A sneezy-looking merchant with a red nose and kohl-rimmed eyes. Each one watched their approach with a calculating gaze rather than awe or fear. He relayed these observations to Cassandra in a low, easy tone.

“They are spies? How did you spot them?” She too kept her voice low and casual, her expression relaxed.

He chuckled. “They’re watching you as closely as they’re watching me and Adaar. Normally they’d focus on the horns and ignore the human. Maybe it’s because you’re a Seeker, but I doubt it.”

They’d reached the castle bridge now, and Adaar pulled her horse sharply to the side to dismount. All three slid from their saddles and led their mounts to where a hitching post stood a few paces from the bridge. Adaar and Bull tied all three mounts to the post. Cassandra scanned the sky, mouth moving in what was probably a prayer.

“There!”

A raven, one of Leliana’s, swooped down towards them from the grey clouds and landed lightly on Adaar’s wrist. She pulled a small piece of parchment from its leg, and the bird flapped off.

“They’re ready,” she muttered, ripping the parchment to tiny shreds in her fingers. She turned to face Bull and Cassandra. Her mouth set in a grim line. “It’s time.”

They set across to the castle in the same formation as before: Adaar ahead, Cassandra on the left flank and Bull on the right. Save for the cry of gulls above them and the sound of the lake lapping against stone, the walk to the castle gates was eerily quiet. There were only two guards on this side of the gate, both dressed in outlandish Tevinter armor. Bull suppressed a growl as they passed, the guards turning to walk with them through the courtyard into the main hall. The courtyard, like the bridge, was quiet. _Too quiet_ , he mused, _like Seheron before the fog starts rolling in_. 

Inside the entrance to the hall, they were met with another ‘Vint guard and a nervous-looking blond man in plainclothes. Adaar drew herself up to her full height and stood before them in a relaxed parade-rest stance.

“Announce us,” she intoned, her voice clear and confident, echoing around the empty hall. She ignored the guard, pinning the other man with a glare instead.

The man’s eyes flicked from Bull to Cassandra and back to Adaar. “The Magister’s invitation was for the Herald only,” he stammered, “Your companions must wait here—”

Adaar cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Where I go, they go.” She glared down her nose at him, as regal as any Orlesian noble. The Seeker was scowling at the poor man too, and Bull grinned down at him while flexing, leather harness creaking, for extra effect.

After a beat, the poor bastard conceded and led the three of them further into the hall and up the stairs to the dais where the Magister was waiting. The two guards from outside trailed behind them—the third stayed by the hall door. As they passed through the hall, Bull counted more guards hiding in the shadows between columns or in alcoves, all fully armored and armed in the Tevene style. _Six, plus our two escorts, plus buddy at the door. Red’s guys have their work cut out for them._

At the top of the dais, seated on the Arl’s carved wooden throne, the Magister watched their approach. The mage, Fiona, and another younger, pale ‘Vint flanked him on either side. If Alexius was displeased that Adaar was not alone, he didn’t show it. The blond man stood off to the side and bowed. “My Lord Magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”

“My friend! So good to see you again,” the ‘Vint sneered, standing up and striding towards Adaar. His ego oozed from every pore, and it made Bull’s skin crawl. “And your… associates, of course. I’m sure we can work out an arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

At this, Fiona stepped forward, a distraught look on her face. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” she cried.

The Magister dismissed her with a wave of his hand and a look of disdain. “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives—” 

“Enough pleasantries. Shall we begin?” Adaar snapped. She motioned for Bull and Cassandra to stay put, and moved closer to the dais where Alexius stood. Confidence and defiance radiated from her, and Bull couldn’t help but feel a little proud.

“Straight to business, then? A woman after my own heart.” He slid back into his seat on the throne, a smirk slashed across his face. “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach. I have them. So,” he mused, staring down at her over tented fingers, “What are you willing to offer in exchange?”

“Nothing.”

The Magister was stunned for a moment. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. I’m just going to take the mages, and walk out of here,” Adaar said breezily.

The ‘Vint was silent. Bull could see the gears turning in his head as he worked through Adaar’s brazen display of insolence.

“She knows everything, father,” the younger ‘Vint to his side said softly.

The Magister snapped his attention to his son, startled. “Felix,” he hissed, “ _What have you done_?”

“He’s concerned you’re involved in something terrible,” Adaar said. Her voice was calm, but her body was coiled, ready to attack or defend herself.

“So says the _thief_ ,” the Magister growled. He leapt out of his seat and stalked towards her. “You think you can turn my son against me? You walk in here with your stolen Mark, a gift you don’t even understand—”

“What _is_ this Mark?” Adaar shot back, “What was it supposed to accomplish?”

“It was to be a triumphant return for the Elder One, which you _spoilt_ with your meddling. You’re nothing but a _mistake_ ,” Alexius spat.

“Father, listen to yourself!” Felix interrupted. “Do you know what you sound like?”

“He sounds exactly like every villainous cliché everyone expects us to be,” and there was Dorian, striding out of the shadows to stand tall beside Adaar. The Magister glowered down at the new arrival, his fists clenching in rage.

“Dorian. I gave you a chance to be a part of this, and you turned me down.” He raised his hands in supplication, a fanatical look on his face. “The Elder One has power you would not believe; he will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“Is that who you serve? The one who murdered the Divine and opened the Breach?” Adaar tried to draw his attention back to her. Out of the corner of his eye, Bull caught a glimpse of Inquisition armor in the shadows. “Why?”

Alexius paid her no heed, caught up in his ranting. “Soon, he will become a God. He will make this world bow to mages once more, and we will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas!”

“No!” Fiona cried, “You can’t involve my people in this!”

“Alexius, this is exactly what we discussed never wanting to have happen! Why would you support this?” Dorian pleaded as he stared at his former mentor in horror.

Felix clasped his father’s shoulder, his eyes frantic. “Stop this madness, Father! Give up the Venatori, leave the southern mages be, and let’s go home.”

His father shook his head, cradling his son’s face in his hands. “No, Felix. The Elder One can save you, if I undo the mistake at the Temple… It’s the only way.”

“Save me? What—” 

Alexius whirled around and pointed at Adaar. “Venatori, seize them!” he screamed, “The Elder One demands this woman’s life!”

No guards rushed forth. The hiss of arrows and the gurgles of slit throats were the Magister’s only reply—six Inquisition agents and the Spymaster stepped out of the shadows over the bodies of the slain Venatori. 

Adaar turned slowly back to the Magister, voice calm and strong. “Your men are dead, Alexius.”

“No!” the enraged Magister hissed, drawing something from inside his robe. Bull was on guard immediately—it was some sort of amulet, already glowing with magical energy. “You’re… nothing… but… a… _mistake_!” A green-blue glow surrounded him, and he raised his hand to strike at Adaar.

Dorian yelled something unintelligible and threw up his staff to counter the Magister’s spell with his own. A bolt of light slammed into Alexius and he dropped the amulet, falling backwards onto the dais. Before any of them could react, a blinding flash of blue ripped through the hall. Bull had to blink away the spots out of his eye to clear his vision. When he was finally able to see again—

Dorian and Adaar were gone. 

A greasy, sooty smear marked the ground where the pair had stood. He stared at it numbly for a moment, before a strangled sound from Cassandra spurred him into action.

“The Herald—”

With a roar, Bull drew his greataxe from his back and launched himself at Alexius. _One clean swipe between his sneering_ basra _eyes_ —

Another blinding flash of blue, and Bull stumbled back as a _rift_ opened up in front of him. It spat Adaar and Dorian out before snapping shut with a resounding _boom_. Bull watched in astonishment as they tumbled to the floor in a heap before scrambling to stand up beside each other, weapons drawn. Adaar’s hair was half out of her braids in wild tangles, Dorian’s was sticking straight up from his head. Both of them were breathing heavily and covered head to toe in blood and demon goo and who knew what else.

“What the fu—”

Adaar lurched toward the Magister with a growl and slammed the heel of her boot down on the amulet just as he reached for it. It cracked and shattered as she ground it into the stone floor. 

Dorian tossed his head smoothly, as if their re-appearance was the most natural thing in the world, and glared down at Alexius. “You’ll have to do better than _that_.”


	8. Though Darkness Closes I am Shielded by Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaar and Co. contend with the aftermath of Redcliffe.

_In. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four._

“Herald—”

_In. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four._

“Herald!” Cassandra’s sharp voice cut through the fog miring Issala’s brain. She snapped back to herself and blinked—the Seeker and The Iron Bull were both staring at her from across the campfire, faces creased with concern.

“Hm? Sorry Cass, I wasn’t listening,” she murmured. The fire had died down considerably, and the sky was much darker now. She must have been zoned out for quite some time, focused on keeping her breathing level to quell the panic she was trying to keep at bay. 

Cassandra sighed. “I asked if you would tell us what else happened in this future you and Dorian experience in Redcliffe. I know you said you wanted to wait until we returned to Haven but...”

The light from the fire’s embers flickered across Cassandra and Bull’s face, and for the briefest second their eyes glowed red, like the blighted red lyrium, like their doomed and dying future counterparts. _As the demons dragged their bodies back into the chamber the red light died from their eyes_ — Issala’s breath seized, eyes blinking hard, and their faces returned to normal. She shook her head.

“It’s—I just think it’d be easier to only have to tell you all once,” she said. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and grunted, “Get that out of the way tomorrow, and then we can focus on dealing with getting the mages settled and ready to march on the Breach.”

The Seeker frowned at Bull, who cleared his throat. “It might help you to tell us, Adaar, and the ‘Vint too,” he said gently, gesturing to the tent that Dorian had retired to hours ago. “You both seem—there’s this _look_ soldiers in Seheron get. The Qun calls it _asala-taar_ , ‘soul sickness.’ You both got it in spades, and it’s spooky as shit.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement. “I have seen my share of combat fatigue among the Templars and the Seekers. Even—well, Bull is correct. I do not want you to bear this burden alone.”

Issala huffed through her nose and forced a smile. ”I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about how the others will react when they find out I offered the mages an alliance.“

That made the Seeker grimace slightly. “It would not have been my ideal choice,” she began slowly, “But I support your decision.”

“You do?”

“We need aid to seal the Breach, and you have secured it. We have also dealt with the Venatori threat in Redcliffe, and denied this Elder One an army of mages.” Cassandra sounded almost _pleased_. “We will not renege on our promise to the Grand Enchanter.”

Issala blinked in surprise. “I—thank you, Cassandra,” she said softly. Knowing the Seeker was on her side made her feel marginally better. Leliana had already voiced her approval for the alliance after they'd ironed out some of the details with King Alistair, before departing for Haven ahead of them. Josephine would be able to spin the alliance in the Inquisition’s favor, hopefully. The Commander… _He’s going to be furious_.

Bull, of course, caught on to what she was thinking. He pulled a flask out of his pocket and passed it to her with a grin. “Don’t worry about Cullen. You and Red and the Seeker will wear him down in no time.”

The Tal-Vashoth unscrewed the cap of the flask, sniffing the contents—and broke into her first genuine smile since Alexius sent her into that nightmare future. “ _Maraas-lok_!” She took a deep pull, and immediately started coughing and gagging.

Cassandra looked alarmed. “What in Andraste’s name—”

Issala’s eyes were watering, but she was still smiling. She passed the flask back to Bull with a hoarse laugh. “ _Maraas-lok_ is an absolutely _disgusting_ Qunari liquor. We used to haze new recruits with it in the Valo-Kas. When Kaariss joined, we got him so _drunk_ —”

She distracted her companions, and herself, for the rest of the night with stupid stories about her mercenary company. Soon she had Bull roaring with laughter, and even Cassandra was smiling by the time the first stars peeked out in the night sky. Issala offered to take first watch, and the other woman retired to her tent. Bull sat up with her until he’d finished off his flask, making casual conversation while observing her in his quiet, intent way. _The Ben-Hassrath are always watching, Imekari_.

“You miss ‘em? Your crew?”

“The Valo-Kas? More than anything,” she sighed. Leliana’s people had leads, but there weren’t resources to spare to investigate them. Maybe after the Breach was closed…

“What about your family?”

Issala raised her eyebrow. “What makes you think I have one?” He said nothing, giving her one of his pointed looks, and she growled, “You asking for your _reports_?”

Bull grunted. “I’m asking as a _friend_ , Adaar. My job is to report on the Inquisition. Your family isn’t Inquisition, so—”

“We’re friends now, _Ben-Hassrath_?” she sneered. Bull only shrugged and smiled in reply. Issala sighed. She would offer him a small half-truth then, enough to keep him off her back. “I miss them too, but...it’s complicated.” She pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees as she regarded him. “I haven’t seen them since I left home. They don’t really agree with my career choices.”

The larger man chuckled. “Can’t say blame ’em. The merc life isn’t exactly the safest or the most respected.”

Issala nodded. “I wish I could go see them, before we try to close the Breach, in case…” She shook her head and straightened up, stretching her legs out in front of her. “It doesn’t matter. Go get some sleep, I’ll wake you when it’s your turn to take watch.”

He gave her a shrewd look, but said nothing, and rose from his spot with a groan. After watching him duck into the tent he was sharing with Dorian, Issala turned her attention back to the dying fire and threw another log on. Left alone in silence, images of the red future and the ruined faces of Bull and Cassandra and Leliana pressed in on her mind once again. 

_Before the demons and the Venatori dragged the gutted, ruined body of The Iron Bull back inside the chamber, before he and Cassandra had even left to face the Elder One’s army together, he had pulled Issala into a tight hug. “I tried to keep them safe,” he’d whispered, voice hoarse with exhaustion and the red lyrium that was slowly killing him. “Your folks. I kept them safe for as long as I could.” And then he and the Seeker had left a stunned Issala, Dorian, and the husk of Leliana behind._

The log on the fire popped and sent up a shower of sparks, pulling Issala back to the present. She settled in for her watch, focused on her breathing again, and wondered idly if she should bother trying to sleep at all tonight.

***

Cullen paced across the nave of the Chantry like a caged lion. He was indeed furious—word of the Herald’s alliance with the rebel mages reached Haven yesterday evening, ahead of hers and Cassandra’s and Leliana’s return, and the implications of her decision, the _fear_ , had kept him up for most of the night. 

_Does she even understand what she’s done? The danger of having so many free mages, so many apostates, this close to the Breach? We don’t have enough Templars to watch them all, we don’t have enough lyrium_ — _Maker’s breath, we don’t even have enough tents or lodging_ … 

Josephine watched his movements with a wary eye. “Cullen, please,” she soothed, “Our goal was to solicit either the Templars _or_ the mages to help close the Breach, and the Herald was successful. We don’t yet know what the terms of this alliance entail—”

He halted his pacing and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The headaches had already begun, compounded by stress and exhaustion, no doubt. “I _know_ that, Josie,” he gritted, ”But there _will_ be incidents. Possessions, abominations. We need to be prepared for the worst.”

The Ambassador had a reply ready, but was interrupted by the Chantry doors swinging open. The Herald entered, flanked by Cassandra and Leliana, with the Tevinter mage Pavus and The Iron Bull close behind. Cullen’s anger flared anew, their previous truce forgotten entirely, and he stalked towards her. 

“What were you _thinking_ , turning the mages loose with no oversight?” he roared, “The Veil is torn open—”

“Commander—” Cassandra tried to placate him, but he ignored her as he continued to seethe at Adaar.

“Is this how you chose to _reward_ the rebels after everything they did, after they allied themselves with those cultists? Letting them run amok amongst innocents?”

A heavy silence followed his outburst. The Herald gazed down at him, arms crossed, with a blank expression on her face. When she spoke, her voice was flat, quiet. Tired. “Are you finished, Commander?”

Cullen said nothing. Her subdued response doused some of his anger and replaced it with concern and a little shame. He studied her face: there was a new cut on her cheek, dark circles under her eyes, and there was a hollow, tense look about her that made him uneasy. She looked as awful as he currently felt. “Herald,” he said, slower, calmer, “What happened in Redcliffe?”

She swept past him, motioning for everyone to follow, and headed towards the War Room. Once inside, she pulled out a chair for herself and sat down with a heavy thump. Dorian sat beside her. Cullen opened his mouth to protest the presence of the Tevinter, during what was surely going to be a sensitive matter, but the Herald cut him off with a glare.

“No. Dorian stays.” She shot Leliana, the Seeker, and The Iron Bull similar looks. “Without his help, we wouldn’t have been able to come back. I owe him my life.”

Cullen murmured his assent, as did the others, and the Herald sighed. She clasped her hands in front of her and stared up at the ceiling. “You read the message we sent ahead yesterday?”

“We did. You said that you’d secured an alliance with the mages. And that there was an… incident with the Magister in Redcliffe,” Josephine recounted.

“I’m sorry for not including more details. We didn’t want to risk the information getting into the wrong hands,” Adaar explained. Her gaze remained fixed on the stones above her as she continued. “We met with the Magister in the main hall of the castle. Leliana’s agents were able to take care of the Venatori guards without incident. Then we confronted Alexius, and he became...enraged. He was ranting about the Mark, about his master, this ‘Elder One’.” She paused for a moment, then looked at Cassandra. “What did you see then?”

The Seeker blinked, considered the Herald’s odd question. “He cast a spell. There was a bright light, and then you and Dorian were gone. We thought...we thought he had obliterated the both of you.”

Bull grumbled. “It _looked_ like he’d turned you into a greasy mark on the floor. Seeker and I were both ready to tear him limb from limb, and then—”

“—you and Dorian re-appeared a moment later,” Leliana finished, quietly. “You were both bloody and worse for wear, but alive.”

All three looked at the Tal-Vashoth and the mage expectantly. The Herald turned to Dorian, who coughed and stared down at the table. His face held that same tight, tired expression that hers did.

“We _think_ Alexius was trying to use his time magic to erase Adaar from the timeline completely. She would have never been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes to interrupt his master’s plan. But we caught him by surprise, and he cast his spell too soon. I countered it, the magic went wild and…”

“And he sent us a year into the future. A full year with no Herald, no Mark to close the Breach,” Adaar finished for him. She sighed again. “That’s as much as we told Cassandra, and Leliana, and Bull afterwards, but I wanted to wait until we were all here so you could all hear the details. We—it’s going to be difficult to explain.”

Cullen and Josephine exchanged stunned looks. The Ambassador swept around the table and pulled a chair beside the Herald’s, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder as she sat. “Lady Adaar—”

She offered Josephine a weak smile. “Can you take notes, Josie? Some of this information may be important later.” After the other woman pulled her clipboard and a quill towards her, Adaar took a shuddering breath.

She told them everything. About wandering the damp, ruined dungeons of Redcliffe castle. Rescuing Cassandra and Bull from the cells, how the red lyrium had infected them. About finding the Grand Enchanter, limbs twisted and frozen from the blighted crystals that had grown through her flesh. Fighting demons and Venatori through the rotted and ruined passages as they tried to piece together what had led to the nightmare future. About finding Leliana, who had been tortured and experimented on, turned into a husk of herself, who confirmed their fears—without the Herald and her Mark, the Breach had grown and spread across Thedas, the Venatori had murdered Empress Celine and swept over Orlais and Ferelden with an army of demons, had destroyed the Inquisition and hunted their leaders to the ends of the earth. Confronting a future Alexius, driven mad by his failures and the destruction he’d wrought. Trying to reverse his spell so they could return and ensure none of the horrors they’d witnessed could happen.

Tears began streaming down the Herald’s cheeks as she recounted Cassandra, Bull, and Leliana’s future counterparts' brave last stand, and the slaughter that followed. She was gripping Dorian’s hand tightly and her voice cracked with emotion several times. Dorian looked on the verge of tears himself. Cullen’s heart broke for her, for both of them. _Maker, to go through such a nightmare and survive_ …

Another heavy silence followed the conclusion of their account. Those assembled regarded both Adaar and Dorian with a mixture of horror and pity. She scrubbed her tears away with the back of her hand and looked at Cullen with resignation. “That’s why I offered the mages an alliance. After what we saw—I couldn’t—”

Cullen held up his hand and shook his head. His anger from earlier had completely disappeared, fully replaced with hot shame and regret. “I owe you an apology, Herald,” he said softly, “We’ve put you through so much already, and this—I am truly sorry.”

She said nothing, merely nodding and looking down at her hands. Dorian wiped his eyes and stood up to stretch. “Well, now that we’ve re-lived that lovely nightmare together, I think I might go get good and drunk,” he said, with forced lightness. “I assume you have a tavern of sorts in this quaint little backwater?”

Bull rolled his eyes and gestured for Dorian to follow him out of the room. “C’mon fancy boy.” The mage made to follow the Qunari, but Adaar tugged on the sleeve of his robe to stop him. It was a sad, childlike gesture that made something twist inside Cullen’s chest.

“You’ll stay, won’t you Dorian?” She gave him a hopeful, watery smile.

The mage offered her a smile of his own and patted her hand. “Of course my dear! You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. The south is _so_ charming and rustic this time of year and besides, we have a world to save together, don’t we?”

Once the two men left, the Herald turned back to the council. Her face was calm and steely, a mask that Cullen saw right through, but that hollow look was gone. A small part of her burden seemed to have been relieved, at least. When she spoke again, her voice was more level and brisk.

“So. The mages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovelies so much for reading and leaving kudos!
> 
> Up next: a training-for-the-Breach montage and some more NSFW fun.


	9. An Unwitting Observer, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up far longer than I intended, so I had to split it into two parts. Have some character development and a little bit of Cullen F-E-E-L-I-N-G T-H-I-N-G-S.

> **_Hissera,_ **
> 
> **_I’m not dead. Sorry for not writing for so long. I know I say that every time, but it’s true. A lot of weird shit has happened since the last time I wrote, even more than usual._ **
> 
> **_I don’t know if news about the Inquisition has reached this far north of Treviso yet, but if it has—that’s who I’m working for now. Sort of. My contract with the Valo-Kas hasn’t technically ended yet, but after the big Conclave explosion nobody knows where Shokrakar and the others are. Lots of people died, but I didn’t, and now I’m helping the Inquisition deal with demons and bad guys and these Fade rifts that have popped up everywhere (it’s a long story)._ **
> 
> **_The Inquisition agent who delivers this will explain how to send letters back to me safely if you want to write. Please please please don’t use the regular couriers—don’t mention the Inquisition or Haven or ‘Adaar’ or ‘the Herald of Andraste’ (again, long story) to_ ** **anyone** **_else on the farm or in the village. There are more people than usual who would like me to be not-alive, and if anything happens to you guys because of me...well. Make sure you burn this letter after you read it, too._ **
> 
> **_Maybe don’t tell Tama and Papa and Herah about the ‘people wanting me dead’ thing. Or the demons. Tell them I’m alive and fine and I took a break from the mercenary work to join the Inquisition and we’re actually_ ** **helping** **_people and also I get to sleep in a real bed sometimes which is nice. I’ll send some coin soon. Also, I’m almost out of horn balm._ **
> 
> ~~**_I’m sorry for always making you worry_ ** ~~
> 
> ~~**_I miss you_ ** ~~
> 
> ~~**_Stay safe_ ** ~~
> 
> **_Love,_ **
> 
> **_Issa_ ** ****

***

Haven was buzzing with anticipation for the mages’ arrival, and Issala threw herself fully into helping with preparations on top of all her usual _Herald_ duties. Over a hundred of their new allies would arrive by the end of the week—Fiona herself was accompanying the more senior Enchanters and Mages who were deemed experienced enough to assist with the Breach, as well as the healers, alchemists, and researchers who could be assigned to work under Adan and Minaeve as soon as possible. Another hundred or so were headed to the Crossroads in the Hinterlands, to provide support and aid to the refugees and the Inquisition agents already stationed in the area. The remainder of Fiona’s people—including those few elderly mages, children, and Tranquil who’d survived the violence of the Mage-Templar War and the Venatori—had been granted permission to remain outside the village of Redcliffe until after the Breach was closed, thanks to Leliana’s clever negotiations and close friendship with the King of Ferelden.

Staggering the mages’ arrival so the Inquisition wouldn’t be overwhelmed by hundreds of new bodies had been the Commander’s idea, and Issala had to admit it was a clever one. Still, there was much to be done before they could march on the Breach—food and accommodations had to be prepared, soldiers needed to be informed and trained, supply orders needed to be rushed, and there was concern from some of the Templars that their lyrium rations would be affected.

Issala had slid a list of names towards Leliana during one of their meetings, after overhearing two of the former Knight-Lieutenants fretting together. “If we need to increase our lyrium stores, I know some... _agents_ who could help. They’re fast, and they will be discreet.”

The Commander had protested, of course, but only half-heartedly. “We have legitimate suppliers—”

“And they need not know about this,” Josephine said lightly. Leliana and Cassandra both nodded their approval, and even the Commander seemed satisfied with the decision. A little relieved, in fact. 

He had become much more genial towards her since she’d debriefed everyone on what happened in Redcliffe. They still disagreed, still argued on occasion, but their interactions were becoming less and less antagonistic. They even had conversations outside of the War Room sometimes, like normal people. Once, he _joked_ with her. It was nice. Weird, but nice.

Not that she had much free time to reflect on his change in attitude towards her, as Issala was determined to help with preparations, no matter how menial the task. She helped set up tents around the perimeter of Haven. She and Sera went hunting across the frozen lake, and brought back several rams (and one druffalo) over the course of a few days. She dragged Dorian and Varric out to the forest to gather elfroot for Mother Giselle, listening to them both gripe about the cold the whole time. She peeled vegetables for Flissa until her wrists ached. She cleaned and stocked the old potions master’s cabin—now designated the new infirmary—for Adan and the healers. In between all this there were endless meetings, reports, repairs, training, researching, every day.

With so many tasks to keep her hands and her mind busy, she had little time to dwell on the march on the Breach, or the implications of her failure, in her waking hours. But those thoughts still lurked in the recesses of her mind, whispering during rare moments of quiet— _if you fail you will doom them all to the red future_ , _to a slow agonizing death;_ and _do you really think you’ll be able to seal the largest Rift of them all and survive, they’ll be sending bits of you home to Tama in a little box_ —seizing her with fear until a messenger or a summons or a request jolted her back into action. She collapsed into bed late each night, exhausted, and rose early each morning, but her sleep was still troubled with nightmares. As the days went on, her enthusiasm and energy gave way to nervous tension; she snapped at her companions, began butting heads with the advisors again, and avoided Rylen’s attention altogether.

By the end of the week, they were more or less ready. Leliana’s scouts brought word that Fiona and her group were less than two days’ from the village, and suddenly what few tasks remained did not require her help. With the lull in activity Issala’s anxieties and fears pushed their way to the forefront of her mind, paralyzing her into inaction, and she hid in her cabin most mornings. Today her intention had been to tackle some missives and reports, maybe write to her family, but she found it impossible to remain productive and on track for more than a few moments.

Cassandra found her after she’d skipped lunch, and missed tea with Josephine—a first since she’d joined the Inquisition. She was seated at her desk, doodling on a piece of parchment, chin resting on her fist as she stared blankly out the window, foot tapping restlessly on the floorboards. Crumpled papers, the failed attempts of her current letter writing efforts, were scattered in front of her.

“Herald—”

Issala started and swung around. “Wha—ah, hi Cass,” she sighed. She made to rise from her desk, but the other woman pulled a chair around and sat beside her. She fidgeted, like a child about to be scolded for something. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

The Seeker was studying her, eyes full of concern. “You missed your meeting with Lady Montilyet.”

“Oh!” The Tal-Vashoth scrambled for a fresh piece of parchment, intending to scribble down an apology note for the Ambassador. “Shit. I completely forgot. She’s not angry with me, is she?”

“Truthfully, she has been so preoccupied today that I do not think she noticed.” Cassandra’s gaze swept around the disorganized cabin, then back to Issala, frowning. “But some became concerned after not seeing you all morning. Cullen asked that I check on you.”

“ _Rutherford_?” That was surprising. Issala cocked her head, brow furrowed. “Why on earth would he be worried about me?”

“He has noticed you working too hard, with little to no rest for yourself. Distracting yourself with task after task. Skipping meals. Things that he himself is often guilty of doing.” The Seeker pursed her lips, and continued carefully. “He also mentioned that Captain Rylen seemed...unhappy that you were avoiding him.”

_Ah_. He'd tried to talk to her after their return from Redcliffe and she'd brushed him off. He'd sent a messenger with an invitation for drinks and she'd turned him down. She didn't have the energy to deal with flirtations or sex currently, and she was too much of a coward to break things off cleanly in person.

Issala swept her hair back with her hand and tried to ignore the blush she felt creep across her cheeks. “I’m not _avoiding_ —there’s been a lot to do, Cass. It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t help out.” When Cassandra said nothing and only continued to study her face, she scrubbed her tired eyes with her hands and mumbled, “Maybe I haven’t been feeling like great company lately. Maybe I’m a little worried about whether or not I’ll survive closing the Breach or even _succeed_ in closing it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be _fine_.”

Cassandra sighed. “Of course it matters, Adaar,” she said softly. “We cannot ignore the fact that we do not know how this will affect you, that this is not a dangerous mission. I do not think anyone would be without fear facing such a task.”

“Oh, I’m definitely afraid,” Issala grumbled, “I’m scared shitless. Not so much the dying part anymore, but the failing part.” She closed her eyes, shuddered against visions of the red future, then whispered, “I watched you die once already in Redcliffe—”

“I have faith that we will succeed,” Cassandra said plainly. She patted Issala on the arm, a gesture that was more a little awkward coming from the Seeker, but it was sweet nonetheless. “You do not need to carry this burden alone, however. If you need to talk—”

“I’ll be okay, Cass. I mean it,” Issala interrupted. Talking held about as much appeal as a forced march, at the moment. Trying to untangle the knot of her emotions and anxieties, to the Seeker of all people, would just make her feel worse.

Her deflection earned her a grunt and a skeptical look. “You are such a stubborn creature, Herald.”

“Honestly, I’m just more in the mood to hit something repeatedly.” Issala pushed her chair back and stretched her legs. Physical activity would be productive, would keep her mind occupied for a little while. “Wanna go spar?” 

The Seeker raised an eyebrow. “That is supposed to make yourself feel better?”

“Well, Bull also offered to show me some Qunari trick to ‘master my fear,’ but he said it involved a big stick and I wasn’t sure if he meant a literal big stick or his p—”

“ _Ugh_! Fine!” Cassandra threw her hands up and grunted in disgust, but Issala could see a small smile on the woman’s face as she rose from her seat. “I will meet you on the training grounds in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Cass.” After the Seeker left, Issala twisted her hair into a quick braid and rummaged around for a change of clothes, paperwork left in a haphazard pile on her desk for now. The fears were still there, but they were a little lighter, less cloying, and that was something.

***

All things considered, the week had gone fairly smooth for Cullen. The prospect of having Haven overrun with so many mages, so many people in general, had caused no amount of undue stress—on all of them—but thanks to Leliana’s connections and some clever thinking they had been able to come up with a solid plan. The first group of one hundred mages would not be a small addition, but the council had rallied themselves, strategized and delegated, and the members of the Inquisition rose to the occasion. Cullen had been in his element with organizing new training schedules and preparing their Templars, among many other duties, and his withdrawal symptoms were more manageable than they had been in a long while. It was a pleasant surprise that he seemed to be thriving under so many responsibilities during such a crucial week.

The Herald herself had been the busiest out of all of them. With no missions outside of Haven that required her immediate attention, she spent her time throwing herself into whatever task or activity needed doing, no matter how trivial or menial. Her dedication and drive made an impression on commoner and noble alike, and she was endearing herself to the Inquisition’s rank and file as the kind of leader who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, to lead by doing rather than ordering. “A Herald of the People,” Josephine had said during one of their meetings, and even though Adaar had rolled her eyes Cullen saw her brief, embarrassed smile and slight blush before the topic was changed. There was real humility and compassion hidden behind her roguish bravado, despite the weight of the role that had been placed on her shoulders, and he was slowly growing to admire her for it.

That made the change in her demeanor over the past few days all the more troublesome. He suspected that some of her motivation came from needing activity to keep her mind occupied—it was certainly a tactic that he was most familiar with. Now there were fewer tasks that she could assist with, less busywork, and she’d become irritated and withdrawn. She’d become short with him again after they’d built up a somewhat friendlier rapport over the week, and that hollow-eyed, tense look she’d worn upon returning from Redcliffe was back. The horrors she’d experienced in that grim future had affected her deeply; coupled with the upcoming march on the Breach, a grave task that they asked of her when no-one truly knew what the outcome would be, Cullen had no doubt that she was under a great amount of duress. 

He was worried about her, and he wanted to fix things. Somehow.

Confronting her directly was out of the question. Cullen wasn’t willing to risk the fragile acquaintance-ship they’d built before her turn in mood. Besides, she rarely volunteered information about herself during their conversations. Most of the time she asked him questions about his time as a Templar and living in the Free Marches, and had the same frustrating talent that Leliana did for deflecting and turning the topic around when they strayed too close to the personal. So he turned to her companions for help.

Bull’s solution was finding something for her to hit. Sera’s was pranks. Dorian’s was copious amounts of alcohol. Varric, Blackwall, and Vivienne were just as stumped as he was, and Solas gave him some annoying, cryptic bullshit about ‘not distracting the Herald from the task at hand.’ She’d been avoiding Rylen since she got back from Redcliffe, and _that_ was not a topic he wished to discuss with his Captain at any length. He’d cornered Cassandra after the noontime meal—she had at least agreed to go talk to Adaar, but was unconvinced that it would achieve anything.

“You get along with her the best out of all of us, Cassandra, she may at least be willing to open up to you a little.”

The Seeker had looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “She does not _talk_ about _feelings_ , Cullen, nor do I. It would be fruitless,” she said dryly. Then, she narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious, “Why are you so concerned about her all of a sudden?”

Cullen had felt himself flush crimson and sputtered some answers—she was their Herald, their peer, and she needed to be at her best, that her companions were worried, that they couldn’t risk her succumbing to burn-out or worse—and was relieved when Cassandra cut him off with a wave and a sigh. “Fine. I will go to her.”

“If she won’t talk to you, just find some activity that will help keep her mind occupied. I’m sure there’s something to do around here that could be considered somewhat relaxing.” _Relaxation? Good one, Rutherford, you bloody hypocrite_.

Back in his tent, he sorted through the mountain of paperwork on his desk as he turned his conversation with the Seeker over in his mind. _Why are you so concerned about her all of a sudden?_ Why indeed. Nothing he’d told Cassandra had been untrue: they needed the Herald to close the Breach, she couldn’t afford to falter in the face of her mission, and the others _had_ grown worried. Perhaps, too, a part of him wanted a chance to cultivate this tenuous friendship they’d developed. Adaar had proven herself to be loyal, clever, dedicated, and those in the inner circle enjoyed her companionship greatly. He had so few friends besides Rylen and Cassandra, why shouldn’t he—

The sound of weapons clashing rang across the training grounds, startling him out of his reverie. That in itself was not unusual, but the _cheering_ —Cullen dragged himself from behind his desk with a groan and poked his head out through his tent flaps. “Oh for—”

A crowd, mostly Inquisition soldiers and recruits, were grouped in a throng on the training grounds around the ramshackle sparring ring. He could see Bull’s massive horns rise above everyone else; Sera and Varric were standing close together, exchanging what looked suspiciously like gold. Blackwall was shouting something at whatever was happening in front of him, looking more animated than Cullen had ever seen. The Commander rolled his eyes and strode toward the spectacle, intending to disperse the crowd from whatever distraction had gathered them. He pushed his way to the front, voice almost lost in the din, “Alright, alright, back to your duties—”

Another clash of metal pulled his attention to the center of the training ring. _Maker’s breath_ —

Cassandra and the Herald were locked blade-to-blade, the crowd roaring with delight around them. Adaar had a wolfish grin on her face and was wielding two long daggers; the Seeker was scowling in concentration, longsword gripped in both hands. Not practice weapons—real ones. Neither was wearing their armor either—Cass was down to her padded arming doublet, and the Herald only had a leather vest on over her shirt. Neither of them were wearing leg protection beyond simple leather leggings and boots. Before Cullen could think to admonish them for their foolishness, the two women sprang apart, circling each other as the spectators yelled encouragement.

“Get ‘er, ‘erald!”

“The Seeker’s got her beat!”

“Punch ’er in the titty, Hairy!”

Cassandra charged forward, blade sweeping low for the Herald’s flank, but the other woman turned the sword away with a quick parry. She thrust her other dagger forward, easily blocked by the Seeker. Cullen knew firsthand how tenacious and talented the warrior was: she was either going easy on Adaar, or the Tal-Vashoth was better with a blade that he’d thought. He knew that the Herald was excellent with her bow, knew that she’d been practicing her melee this week, but watching her now was something else. She was fast and strong, lean limbs swinging gracefully to strike out or defend. Her movements were economical and methodical, no showmanship or fancy tricks, but she still moved just as fluidly as the Seeker; the two women were practically dancing together. Adaar’s silver braid flew out behind her as she pivoted on her feet— 

“Quite the spectacle, aye Commander?”

He jolted, saw that Rylen had slid through the crowd to stand at his elbow, grinning from ear to ear. Cullen frowned and turned his attention back to the spar in time to see Adaar evade another charge from Cassandra. “They’re not wearing any armor for Maker’s sake, this is dangerous—” Another roar from the crowd as Cassandra leaned back and just managed to avoid an upward swing from the Herald’s blade. “Surely these people have better things to do than egg them on?”

The Captain shrugged. “The people deserve a break from all their hard work. Besides,” he chuckled, eyes sparkling, “Can ye think of a better way to pass the time than watching two strong women fight each other?”

Cullen coughed, felt a hot blush creep up his neck. Again, he felt a rush of guilt and shame for ogling Adaar— _the Herald of Andraste_ —as if he had any right to look at her like _that_ , and with Rylen nearby too. “That—that’s hardly appropriate, Rylen—”

Blades clashed again, and the crowd gave a huge cheer. Adaar had parried Cassandra’s swing again, but this time she managed to twist the sword from the Seeker’s grasp, both blades sailing off to the edge of the ring. When she went in for her final thrust, Cass grabbed the Tal-Vashoth’s wrist and twisted—her grip on her remaining dagger broke, and that blade went flying in the other direction. The Seeker pulled on the Herald’s arm hard, used that momentum against her as she spun, and with one last cry from the spectators the Herald was thrown on her back into the dirt.

Cullen almost cheered with the crowd before he caught himself. He vaulted into the training ring, scowling, as Cassandra helped the Herald sit up.

“What were you two thinking—”

Adaar’s face turned up to his. Her cheeks were smeared with sweat and dirt, flushed with exertion, but her eyes were bright and she was grinning. “I was _thinking_ I might have a chance at beating Cass,” she panted. “Clearly I was wrong.”

Some of Cullen’s concern dissolved at seeing the Herald in such a good mood. _Maker, her whole face lights up when she smiles like that_. He turned his scowl to the crowd instead, now that they had quieted down some. “Alright, back to your duties, all of you!” As the spectators began to file away, he fixed Cassandra with a glare. “This is your idea of a relaxing activity, is it?”

Cassandra was nonplussed. She grabbed the Herald’s hand and helped her stand up. “The spar was _her_ idea, not mine. Then all these people showed up and things got out of hand.”

Still grinning, Adaar dusted off the seat of her leggings. Standing this close to him, she smelled of clean sweat and leather and that spicy ointment she used on her horns. “You should be more clear with your instructions next time, _Rutherford_ ,” she teased. Her spirits must have been lifted if she’d returned to a friendly banter with him. Cullen had a retort ready, but she looked past his shoulder and caught Rylen’s gaze. Her grin dimmed, and her cheeks pinked even more. “‘Scuse me.”

Cassandra was chattering about something, but Cullen was only half-listening as the Herald made her way to the edge of the ring and leaned against the barrier. He watched Rylen and Adaar out of the corner of his eye—they were talking quietly, almost shyly. His Captain laid a gentle hand on her arm, and the Commander felt a sour sort of something twist in his gut.

“—Cullen?”

He snapped his attention back to the Seeker. “I—sorry. Anyway, thank you, Cassandra. She does seem in a much better mood now, no matter the method.” 

He excused himself and made his way back to his tent, avoiding Cassandra’s questioning stare and pointedly not looking at the Herald or Rylen. He tied the tent flaps behind him with a huff, and after he’d shed his armor he sat back down behind his desk. A little whisper in his mind piped up— _Jealous, Rutherford?_ —but he pushed it aside. Eyeing the paperwork before him, he resolved to put that... _feeling_ , that whatever it was, out of his mind entirely.

Whatever it was, it wasn't appropriate.


	10. An Unwitting Observer, Part 2*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No good deed goes unpunished for our dear Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW for smut. Remember that Accidental Voyeurism tag? Yep.

It was well into the night’s first watch before Cullen sat back from his desk and rubbed his aching eyes. He’d managed to make a sizable dent in the pile of missives and papers he’d amassed, but so much remained in front of him. There was always something or other that required his attention or his signature, and this week had been particularly busy. Most of what was left now was busywork, not challenging in the slightest: reports on supplies, updates on recruits, approvals for orders, and approvals on amendments for orders that had crossed and re-crossed his desk more times than they needed to. Things that were not as time sensitive as the march on the Breach, but that needed to be dealt with eventually.

He cursed himself for refusing Cassandra’s suggestions to assign himself an assistant. It was pure stubbornness on his part, for he was aware that there were plenty of capable soldiers and agents among the Inquisition who would do a fine job. There was no logical reason why he should be dealing with minor administrative matters on top of his more important duties, but still he resisted the idea. He was even hesitant to delegate his workload to Rylen on days when the pain and the tremors were especially bad, though it was often necessary.

_I will not give less of myself to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry_. 

Rylen at least understood what he was going through. They’d both seen what lyrium withdrawal did to former Templars, saw what prolonged use did to those whom the Chantry quietly sent into ‘retirement.’ Whatever fate awaited Cullen at the end of this ordeal, at least it would be on his terms, free of the Chantry’s leash. And if it inspired other Templars like Rylen to try, then it would have been worth something.

No, he _needed_ to be able to handle it all. Needed to push himself, to prove to the Seeker, to the Inquisition, and to himself...of what, he wasn’t quite sure yet. That he was worthy of his position, his command? That he was still in control of himself despite his ‘condition’? He hated to dwell on it too hard. He would endure, as he always had, and hope that it was enough.

He scrawled his signature at the bottom of another requisition approval and shuffled it into his completed pile as he reached for the next parchment. This one was folded, ragged and crumpled, addressed to the Herald directly:

> **_Adaar,_ **
> 
> **_We heard you were dead, and then a prisoner, and then maybe you fell out of the Fade and landed on your head and forgot who you were. Knock it off. We still haven't been paid._ **
> 
> **_Some of our kith made it out of that giant shit-hole of demons after the explosion. The rest are dead or missing or maybe rounded up by angry humans. If you're not dead and you remember who you are, help me find our brothers and sisters._ **
> 
> **_Shokrakar_ **
> 
> **_P.S. If you forgot who you are, I'll remind you: Your name is Adaar. You're Vashoth. You didn't get paid for being blown up._ **
> 
> **_P.P.S. If you are dead, disregard this message._ **

And a smaller, less ragged parchment that had been tucked inside:

> **_Adaar,_ **
> 
> **_I guess you aren't dead because some of our kith came back, escorted by a bunch of humans wearing eyeball armor. Kaariss wrote a sonnet to celebrate. It is very bad._ **
> 
> **_We still haven't been paid._ **
> 
> **_Shokrakar_ **
> 
> **_P.S. Good job not being dead. You still owe me a blade._ **

The corner of Cullen’s mouth quirked up as he re-read Shokrakar’s thin scrawling script. The Valo-Kas captain wrote with the same frank and open tone that the Herald used in her field reports. Adaar would be happy that some members of her company were safe and accounted for—from what he was able to glean from their short conversations she’d been working with many of them for a long time and were like a second family to her. She’d called them her _kith_ , spoke of them with a fierce kind of fondness that spoke beyond being comrades-in-arms.

The first message had arrived just after Adaar and her party had left for Redcliffe the first time; he and Leliana made the decision to send out scouts and soldiers to search for the missing mercenaries in the Herald’s absence. Josephine had argued that they ought to wait until she’d returned, but eventually agreed that time was of the essence to ensure the safety of her company in the wake of the Chantry’s denouncement of the Herald and the anti-Tal-Vashoth sentiments that were being stirred up in the South. And since she _had_ asked repeatedly for resources to search for them, it was the least they could do now that there were bodies to spare. The second message came on the heels of her alliance with the mages, and in the flurry of planning and activity that followed they’d completely forgotten to tell her.

Cullen shoved his chair back and stood up as straight as he could under the canopy of his tent. He rolled the tension from his shoulders as he folded the missives together neatly. He should add these to his stack to bring to the War Room in the morning, to give the Herald some good news before they tackled the main task on the meeting agenda and finalized the Inquisition’s plan for the Breach.

_Or you could bring them to her now_.

It was a silly, intrusive thought that struck him out of nowhere. But still, he considered the idea. It wasn’t _that_ late, after all, and more often than not the Herald had been awake and working far later into the night this week. He’d seen the light through her cabin windows many times while walking through Haven for one reason or another around this time. He could bring her captain’s letters to her, apologize for not updating her sooner, and if she wanted to they could send a raven back to Shokrakar tonight. Perhaps she’d want to discuss the logistics of recruiting the Valo-Kas with him. Perhaps she’d even have another radiant smile to give him like this afternoon’s.

He was already at the entrance of his tent, already had his mantle slung around his shoulders to ward off the night’s chill, when he realized what he was doing. An inner voice from the rational part of his mind chided him for his foolishness. 

_This is absolutely absurd_. _You’re going to show up on the Herald’s doorstep late at night and do_ what _, exactly?_

_Give her the messages_ , he reasoned with himself. _Give her the messages, talk to her if she wishes, and then turn in for the night._

_And this can’t wait until the morning because…?_

Logically there was no reason why it couldn’t wait until the morning meeting. The Valo-Kas were in no immediate danger, and if the Herald questioned why she hadn’t been told sooner he and Leliana had several solid explanations. But he still wanted to deliver the news now, and _he_ wanted to be the one to do it because—

He was out of his tent now, walking through the quiet training grounds towards the main gates as he tried to rationalize his actions. Because she was under a lot of stress with everything the Inquisition was asking of her. The Valo-Kas were important to her. Good news about people that were important to her might help relieve some of that stress. 

_Are you_ sure _that’s all?_

Cullen frowned as he made his way up the steps and through the gates. It was silly, certainly, but it was reason enough and it wasn’t _wrong_. If the Herald was awake and questioned why he was delivering the letters this late, he would simply say he thought it was important and leave it at that. If she was asleep, he would enjoy a short walk around Haven before retiring to his tent. No harm either way.

The Breach threw a faint green glow around everything even this late, giving the village a surreal atmosphere. Faint strains of music and the voices of drunk patrons in the Tavern floated down the second set of steps further ahead. To his left, the Herald’s cabin stood nestled against the rock face Haven was built into—warm yellow light emanated through the curtains covering the small windows and chased that green glow from her doorstep. Cullen felt a small swell of relief as he drew closer to the door. He would knock, deliver the letters, then leave. Simple, really.

His fist raised to knock, then paused. The Herald’s door was already open a crack, clearly not latched, which was very odd. Cullen’s hand moved automatically, pulling the door open wider and spilling light across the snow behind him before he had time to process what he was doing.

From his vantage point in the doorway he had a clear view of the Herald’s bed, on which the Herald was kneeling over—no, _straddling_ —someone, with her back to the door, and she was naked and her sweat-slicked bronze skin was almost glowing in the firelight, hair shining like waves of steel around her shoulders, and Cullen could see the muscles of her back and her thighs and her ass flex as she ground down and rose up and ground down again and—

It was only a moment between him opening the door and closing it again, fully closing it with a turn of the knob and a fervent hope that the soft click of the latch wouldn’t be heard, but as Cullen fled from the cabin towards his tent that moment was burned into his mind, the image of Adaar naked and—

He was back in his tent, had stripped off his clothes and doused the candles before the realization of what had just happened hit him full-force. He sank down onto his cot, head cradled in his hands, as a great wave of shame rolled over him.

He’d seen the Herald _naked_. Likely with _Rylen_.

He’d seen the _Herald of Andraste_ and his _Captain_ , and they were _fucking_ , and he’d _watched_ them like some lecherous old man. 

Embarrassment and confusion swirled with the shame, and Cullen fell down face-first onto the cot with a groan. Another groan was muffled by his pillow, and now hot sharp guilt was welling up through his gut, because _Andraste save him_ , his cock was hard, painfully hard, and trapped between his body and the rough fabric of his blankets.

He couldn’t think about Adaar—the Herald—in such a compromising situation, and he had no right to be turned on by it, and he certainly couldn’t _debase_ her by acting on it. Cullen tried to clear his mind, tried to summon images of candles burning down, tried to recite the Canticle of Transfigurations from memory. He willed himself to think of mundane things: the stack of reports left on his desk, training drills, troop inspections. The mages, the Breach.

_Her back curving gracefully as she rides, thighs gripping hips between them, skin soft and warm and flushed. Fingers twisting through silver locks, then fisting and pulling to expose her neck_ —

He froze, cursing himself. He’d let his mind wander, his hips rolling on their own accord, grinding his cock down into the cot. This was entirely, utterly, completely inappropriate. He was the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces for Maker’s sake, not a bloody teenager. Even if Adaar didn’t believe she was Chosen, she was still their Herald, she was—

— _looking down at him, golden-yellow eyes shining and a smirk on her face, but that smirk turns into a look of desperation and those eyes grow dark with lust when his hand sinks between them and starts stroking her_ — 

“No!”

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the stretch of canvas above him. He hadn’t been this aroused in a long, _long_ time, and there was no way he’d be able to sleep now unless he dealt with it. With a grimace he took himself in hand and tried to conjure up the image of another woman, any woman, anyone but the Herald, as he slid his thumb over the head of his cock and through the beads of precome that were already gathered at the tip.

He thought of an elf, pale and dark-haired and lithe, as he began to stroke his length. Back in Kirkwall, they’d met on those rare occasions when he’d been able to pull himself away from his duties as Knight-Captain, and she’d let him have her however he wanted, always let him have control, like the time he’d taken her from behind—

— _the long line of her back stretching before him, she’s on her hands and knees but she’s rolling her hips as he ruts into her, fucking him from below, and she turns her head to grin at him even as he leans forward and grabs her horn to steady himself. “You really think you’re in charge here, Rutherford?” Her voice is low and teasing but unsteady, she’s close, he can feel the muscles of her thighs trembling_ —

Heat coiling in his groin and belly, Cullen thrust his hips up off the cot, his cock slick and sliding through his fist, as he imagined Adaar on top of him again, riding him, guiding his hand to where they were joined to stroke her clit. In his mind he saw her beautiful face looking down at him as she came undone, and _that_ thought was what drove him over the edge. A low moan escaped him as his muscles tensed, and with a strangled groan he stroked himself through his orgasm, sharp and hot, his spend shooting across his stomach. His hand slowed as he rode through his pleasure, then stilled. The second watch bell rang, and he stared up into the darkness.

_Maker, what have I done?_

As Cullen rolled off the cot and felt around blindly for something to clean himself off with, another wave of guilt struck him. Now he had to face the Herald tomorrow, with the knowledge that—

He released a shuddering sigh, and knelt beside his cot in the darkness. In a soft, tired voice, he began to pray.

“ _Blessed are they who stand before t_ _he corrupt and the wicked and do not falter; b_ _lessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's like Catholic guilt, but fantasy-flavored! Also, I wasn't kidding when I said this was a self-indulgent fic (O‿O✿)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading and leaving kudos!


	11. It's a Long Walk to the End of the World

Dawn was breaking over Haven and Issala was already pacing inside the War Room.

Sleep had eluded her for the third night in a row. After hours spent tossing on her bed and then puttering around her quarters, she’d given up and gotten dressed for the morning meeting. Today they would finalize their plans, and then it would be time to march on the Breach.

She was afraid. More afraid than she had been in a long, long time.

The reality of her situation had crashed down on her after Redcliffe. Failure didn’t just mean her death, the death of her companions, who were pretty much new _kith_ now—if she didn’t succeed she would condemn everyone in Thedas to death and destruction at the hands of this Elder One. It wouldn’t matter that the Valo-Kas were mostly alive and safe now, and it wouldn’t matter that her family were far away from the worst of the conflict, if the Breach couldn’t be sealed— 

The creaking of the War Room’s door broke through her ruminations, and she straightened her posture as the Commander strode through with a stack of papers in his hand. He was already fully dressed in his armor, with that big furred mantle that made him look like a cranky bear, dark circles under his eyes. _He must not have been sleeping well either_. It took him a moment to notice her—he nearly jumped out of his skin when he did, and for a beat they both stared at each other like halla caught in torchlight.

“Herald—”

“I was just—”

He was blushing, but then again he was always blushing in her presence lately. It would almost be endearing, if it didn’t make her feel like she’d done something to offend him. Which she was pretty certain she hadn’t—their interactions had been perfectly _friendly_ all week. Chantry humans were such strange creatures compared to what she was used to.

Issala shook her head and poured coffee from the carafe she’d nicked from the mess tent into one of the tin cups that had been left in the War Room. She slid it across the table towards him.

“Don’t have milk or sugar, I’m ‘fraid,” she muttered, cursing how her voice cracked this early in the morning.

Rutherford didn’t seem to mind, though, and relaxed his posture. His lips twisted in a small smirk as he scooped his cup off the table and sniffed the rich dark brew. “How you and Lady Montilyet stand to drink this stuff black, I will never understand.”

“You can’t dilute the _richness_ and _flavor_ of Antivan coffee,” Issala retorted. She took a slow sip from her own cup and smacked her lips for affect. Truly, the coffee that Flissa and her crew brewed for the Inquisition soldiers was much milder and more pleasant than the campfire tar that the Valo-Kas were accustomed to—few mercenaries bothered to carry milk and sugar on the road with them anyway.

The Commander moved to his customary spot across from her and set his papers on the table, clearing his throat. “You’re up rather early this morning.” His tone was conversational, rather than accusatory, but cautious. The blush had vanished and he was looking at her with mild concern. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Issala hummed into her cup, and it was the truth. With the tip of her finger she traced a line on the map before her, from Haven to the silver marker that was pinned to the Temple’s location. “Big day ahead.” _The understatement of the Age, kiddo_.

He splayed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward, eyes tracking the movement of her finger across the map. He was silent for a few moments, then said, “The best of our mages and our soldiers have been prepared for the march. We will not fail you, Herald.”

“And if I fail you?” The question slipped out of her mouth in a whisper, and she winced.

“Hm?”

Issala raised her head and their eyes met, yellow locking with amber across the table. She straightened, clenching her cup with both hands so he wouldn’t see them shake. “I just—it’s a big task, you know? The mages will supply the raw power, but if I can’t close the Breach—”

Rutherford shook his head and tried to placate her, “Solas is confident that—”

She snorted. “Solas is _fairly_ confident that enough power poured into this Mark will do the job. But it’s one thing to theorize, it’s another thing when you’re the conduit.” She lifted her left palm up, flexed her fingers—the Mark was quiet, for now, only a faint green glow visible through a crease in the centre of her hand. “If I can’t close it, if I don’t survive the process then—then I don’t know. And even if the Breach is closed, there’s still the matter of the Conclave explosion, and this Elder One and his Venatori to deal with—” 

“We must focus on one task at a time, Herald.” The Commander’s face was empathetic, his tone firm. “I have faith that you will succeed. As does the Seeker, and the Spymaster, and the rest of the Inquisition.”

Issala hummed, her fingers rubbing along a crease in the parchment just south of Haven as she regarded him with curiosity. For whatever reason, his earnestness was calming her nerves just a little bit. An impulsive thought entered her mind, and she asked him, “Do Andrastians have prayers they say before they go into battle, before they embark on something dangerous?”

“Oh—” He blinked, surprised, then considered her question. “I suppose parts of the Chant work well for that purpose. Most people might pick a verse that resonates with them.” When she gestured for him to continue, he closed his eyes and recited:

_“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_

_I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”_

His voice was smooth and low, a warm baritone that suited the cadence of the verse well, and that was calming too. He opened his eyes as he finished, and she offered him a small smile. “That’s lovely. Thank you for sharing, Rutherford.”

The blush started to creep up his neck again, and Issala had to bite her lip to keep herself from giggling at his expense. _Do all Fereldans blush that easily, or is it just him? If he wasn’t such a pain in the arse most of the time it’d almost be an attractive_ —

Thankfully, he interrupted the strange path her thoughts were going down with a question of his own. “What about you? Do you have prayers for moments like these, I mean? I know that you are not Andrastian and that you do not follow the Qun, but...”

“I—hmm,” Issala frowned as she considered. Her parents had taught her and her sisters many parables from the Qun, but they weren’t _prayers_ per se. The only prayer she could recall at the moment were snippets of the Prayer for the Dead, which _hopefully_ wouldn’t be necessary. Rutherford was looking at her expectantly, and the phrase came out before she could stop herself:

“ _Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit_.” Her tongue stumbled over the words, heavy and thick in her mouth after so many years of neglect. A sharp pang of homesickness lanced through her chest. “It means: ‘ _it is my purpose to do what I must for those I consider important_ ’.”

“Like Rylen?” 

Issala bristled. Of course he’d know, he and the Captain were old friends. Rylen had assured her there would be no hard feelings, but— “The Captain is a member of the Inquisition, and the Inquisition at large is important to me,” she said evenly. “As are my friends, my companions, you and the other advisors. I’ll do what I can to help as long as I’m able.”

To his credit, the Commander looked like he regretted his question and raised a hand to rub along the back of his neck. Now his face was as red as beetroot. “Forgive me, I—”

She drained the remainder of her coffee in a gulp and refilled her cup with a sigh. “It’s fine. We’re not—Rylen and I have...discontinued our arrangement. Did he not inform you of this?”

“Ah—we don’t tend to discuss such matters together.” His face was still crimson, but he looked almost relieved. “I wasn’t aware, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said plainly, waving her hand at him. “It was mutual.” _Sort of_. But Rylen would thank her in the long run.

“May I ask the reason why?”

Now it was her turn to blush. Issala picked at the skin around her fingernail and avoided the Commander’s gaze. Rylen had asked her as much too, and though she tried to be as honest and direct as she could she’d still seen the hurt in his eyes even as he’d accepted her explanation. “I wasn’t interested in pursuing the relationship any further. It would have been a waste of the Captain’s time to continue, and we both have our duties to the Inquisition that require our attention.”

It sounded so stupid out loud, as it had the other night, but luckily Rutherford seemed satisfied with the answer. He nodded and relaxed, his blush receding somewhat. She couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to needle him, however. “So if you know anyone who’s interested in the Captain, he’s got a _great_ —”

“Maker’s breath!” he groaned, “That’s hardly—”

“—personality,” she finished, grinning wide. The Commander threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes, but she could see he was trying to hide a grin of his own. “You really need to learn to have fun, Rutherford. It must get exhausting being so uptight all the time.”

“I’ll be sure to take that under advisement, Herald.”

Footsteps and voices floated towards them from further down the Chantry hall, but Issala couldn’t resist one more tease. She leaned against the table towards him and drew her bottom lip through her teeth. “You know, Commander,” she purred, “Speaking of _fun_ , I may be able to help now that—”

“Maker, no! I mean—I’m not—” he spluttered. That bright red flush bloomed again and creeped from his cheeks down his neck, and _oh_ it was delicious to watch.

“Andraste’s knickers, you should see yourself!” Issala roared with laughter despite herself. “Oh, I’m sorry Rutherford, but your face—”

“I see we are all in good spirits this morning,” Cassandra grumbled as she slid through the door, followed by a bright-eyed Leliana and a very sleepy Josephine. They descended on the remainder of the coffee immediately. Rutherford was glowering at the Herald, and she shot him her brightest shit-eating grin over the rim of her cup. Not even the prospect of her impending doom could take the fun out of taking shots at the Commander.

The Commander cleared his throat as they all took their usual positions around the War Table. “Right, well. Our forces will be prepared to move shortly…”

***

The Breach was even worse up close, Bull decided. After hours of marching through the snow with the Inquisition and picking their way through rubble and charred bodies, they were assembled and in position within the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Standing under the Breach now, the whole sky was blotted out by that swirling vortex of green light. Pieces of masonry and rock were _floating_ in it, for fuck’s sake, miles and miles above the ground. Even with the Inquisition’s forces and the mages amassed behind them, it seemed like closing the Breach would be a grueling task.

Adaar shifted nervously beside him. Her face was pale underneath the white and red stripes of vitaar decorating her forehead and cheeks, but her expression was set in determination. They had all started the march in good spirits, joking and bantering as they normally did on the road. Sera and Dorian had been teasing her most of the way, something about ‘ _breaking poor Rylen’s heart_ ’ and she had teased right back and it was all good fun. But the moment they crested the final hill and the crater that surrounded the Temple came into view, a tense silence fell over the group. As Cassandra and Solas directed soldiers and mages into their positions on the ledges and balconies around them, Dorian, Bull, and Adaar fell into a line on the ground below. He had to tilt his head back all the way to look at the Breach now, and it almost seemed to his eye that it was pulsing above them.

_Damn thing gives me a headache just looking at it._

He was here to observe and report back to his superiors, and he was also here to protect the Herald and kick some demon asses if need be, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “Remind me again what happened the last time you tried this?” Bull grunted.

She too craned her neck upward and grimaced up at the Breach. “Giant Pride demon showed up. I almost died and was out of commission for three days. No biggie, really.” He could hear the leather of her glove creak as she flexed and unflexed her Marked hand. On Bull’s left, Dorian snorted even as he gripped his staff with both hands.

“Do you recall when I said I wanted to see the Breach up close? Is it too late to rescind that request?”

Cassandra reappeared on Adaar’s right side before she could respond. The Seeker’s face was tight and impassive. “Our forces are in position, Herald. Are you ready?” 

Bull glanced around. Rows of mages stood behind them on what was once a balcony, passing lyrium potions down the line. Soldiers and archers were gathered around the walls above, ready to jump into action should any demons, or worse, appear. Solas stood with the mages, ready to guide them; Sera flitted among the archers, her face deadly serious for once. Bull turned his attention back to Adaar and caught her eye—her face was a mask of calm, but there was no mistaking the stark fear underneath. Still, when she spoke her voice was steady and strong.

“Ready.” Adaar squared her shoulders, held her head high. She slowly walked closer to the center of the Temple, towards the ruined statue that stood directly under the Breach, as the Seeker signaled to Solas and the mages.

“Mages!” Solas’s voice echoed off the stones. Faint sounds of lyrium vials being uncorked and consumed followed. “Focus past the Herald—let her will draw from you!”

Dozens of voices shouted as one and the ends of staves pounded on stone as the mages poured their power into the Mark. The area was filled with a swell of thrumming energy that made the hairs on Bull’s arms stand on end. He held his greataxe loosely in his grip, and heard the sounds of swords being drawn and bow strings creaking. Beside him, Dorian’s mana hummed as the mage readied himself. Cassandra was saying something, but it was impossible to hear anything beyond the blood pumping in his ears.

_Can she do it? She has to. She’s the only one who_ —

Adaar was still moving forward, head ducked down against the pulses of green that shot down from above—her left hand was completely consumed by crackling green now, and she looked so _small_ from this far away—

With a scream she thrust her hand into the air, and just like he’d seen in the field countless times before threads of green shot from her palm up, up into the sky and connected with the rift far above them. The air was pure static, roaring and loud, the light almost blinding, and only the dark silhouette of Adaar was visible to them now. Bull could see her arm vibrating with effort, her hand frozen into a claw—slowly, her wrist rotated like she was turning something ( _like closing a door_ ), but it was taking an eternity and it seemed like time had frozen, and then—

A flash of bright, white light was quickly followed by a wave of force that knocked everyone, including Bull, on their backs. He narrowly avoided smacking his head on the stone, and as he rolled onto his side with a grunt he heard Cassandra’s shout cut through the silence that followed.

“Herald!”

He was on his feet in seconds, running after the Seeker and Dorian until they were all kneeling beside Adaar’s still form. Dorian’s hands flared with healing magic as he passed them over her face and chest, and Bull’s heart was pounding in his throat. _Please, please don’t be dead_. After a beat, the Vashoth cracked an eye open and stared up at them.

“Well? Say something, you daft woman!” Dorian admonished her.

“Did we do it?” Her voice was hoarse, but she was _alive_.

Cassandra laughed, actually _laughed_ , as she helped the Adaar sit upright. “Yes, Herald. You did it.”

A great cheer rose up from those assembled as she was helped to her feet. She looked exhausted, but she was grinning ear to ear as she looked up at the sky above them. A thin slash of green cut through the sky above, much like the Mark on her palm, but the Breach itself was gone.

She’d actually done it.

Bull clapped a hand on Adaar’s shoulder with enough force to make her stagger sideways. “Well I’ll be damned! That was almost too easy!”

Later, much later, after they’d made the long trek back to Haven, after the village was swept up in celebration, when the warning bells began to ring, he’d regret saying that very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I'm still alive! 2020 is really kicking my ass, but I refuse to abandon this project without seeing it through. I'm stubborn like that.


	12. To Claim Heaven by Violence

**_Then the Maker said:_ **

**_"To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:_ **

**_In your heart shall burn_ **

**_An unquenchable flame_ **

**_All-consuming, and never satisfied."_ **

**—Canticle of Threnodies 5:7**

***

“I can’t come in unless you open!”

Two soldiers strained to push the heavy wooden gates open at her command, and soon Issala was staring down at a strange-looking human who was more hat than anything else as her brain scrambled to process just what in the Void was going on.

_Attack. We’re under attack. Haven is under attack. DO SOMETHING_.

The air of celebration was gone—the village was now in complete chaos. People were screaming over the clanging Chantry bells, the Commander and his officers were shouting orders above the din, and this slip of a boy stood outside Haven’s main gate in a ring of armored bodies. The dagger in each of his hands dripped dark blood into the churned-up snow at his feet.

“You’re so much louder up close.” The hat-human was looking up at her, large pale blue eyes now visible under the floppy rim. “ _Beautiful, like the sandstorms off the coast_. _Her soul will never be dust._ You’re Issala. I’m Cole. I came to help.”

“Who—how—”

“I came to warn you. The Templars have come to kill you. You probably already know.”

“The Templars?” Rutherford was beside her now, angry but nonplussed by the appearance of the strange boy. “Is this their response to our alliance with the mages, attacking us blindly?”

Hat-human—Cole—shook his head, his eyes still locked on Issala’s face. “The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him? He knows you. You took his mages. Look,” he pointed a long, thin finger at the rise across the frozen lake. 

In the distance, standing on the rocky outcropping, she could make out a man in bulky Templar armor and next to him was—what was that _thing_? Its silhouette looked like that of a darkspawn but impossibly tall, its limbs angular and thin, moving with an unsettling, fluid grace. She couldn’t have dreamed up such a creature, even in her worst nightmares. On either side of the rise, lines upon lines of torches marched towards them, hundreds of hostile enemies by her best estimation.

“Maker’s breath,” the Commander muttered, “I know that man, but this Elder One—”

“He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Okay_. Issala unslung her bow and gritted her teeth, thankful that she hadn’t bothered to doff her armor after they’d returned from the Temple. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, making it hard to think—she looked down at Rutherford, eyes narrowed. “On your orders, Commander.”

He met her gaze cooly and nodded, pointed to one of the trebuchets in the distance. “Gather a party and defend the siege engines. If we are to survive we must control the battle with everything we have.” And then he was whirling away, sword raised, rallying their soldiers and their mages to action as she dashed through the snow to find backup, Inquisition forces roaring behind her.

“For the Herald! For your lives!”

_Not me, not for me you fools, for Haven—_

The boy was gone now—was there a boy? Who had she been talking to before? _No, no time_. Bull and Solas and Cassandra were already sprinting towards her, weapons drawn and faces grim. Together they raced down the path towards the northern trebuchet. 

There were only four Inquisition soldiers on the platform ahead, and Issala could already see the glimmer of the enemy's armor between the gaps in the timber stockade that blocked their view of the lake. One of their soldiers waved them down as they approached.

“Maker be praised! Keep them off us while we man the trebuchet, Herald!”

The scrape of boots on stone had her turning, ready to fire, but to her relief she saw Sera and Dorian, armed and armored, scrambling down the embankment towards them instead of their enemy. Bull gave a great whoop and hefted his greataxe over his head.

“Alright! _Now_ it’s a party!”

“Oi, Hairy!” Sera had drawn her bow too, and was already nocking an arrow as she leaped on top of a pile of crates beside the Herald. “As if we’d let you have all the fun to yourselves!”

Issala grinned despite herself. “As if I could have stopped you!” As the soldiers began cranking the counterweight into position, her companions moved into position. They’d have to cover both paths up from the lakeshore while making sure their enemy stayed far enough away from the siege weapon. A less-than-ideal situation, but doable. 

As the first Templars appeared in range and Solas and Dorain laid elemental mines in their paths, Issala drew back her bowstring and held it taut with all her strength. She took a slow, steady breath in through her nostrils and breathed out through her mouth.

_Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit._

The first wave fell like hay under a scythe to Bull and Cassandra’s blades, and those few Templars lucky enough to slip past them met their end by mage or arrow. Soon the snow was red with blood and littered with bodies, but the counterweight was only a third of the way in position. While the rest of their group passed around potions and examined wounds in the brief lull, Issala inched closer to one dead Templar and toed their helm off their head to get a better look at their face. She stumbled back from the body with a shout of alarm, and heard Sera gasp behind her.

“Eugh! Andraste’s arsehole, what’s _wrong_ with him?”

Half of the man’s face was twisted up into a rictus grin, bloodshot and sunken eyes staring blankly at the dark sky above. Small spikes of red crystal were growing on—no, _through_ —the sagging, sallow skin of his cheek and jaw, trailing down his neck and disappearing under his armor. The metallic-bitter odor of lyrium reached her nostrils, but it was tainted with something else, something decaying and _wrong_. Issala gagged and covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve.

_The red future is here, the red future is here, you couldn’t stop it, it’s happening, it’s here_ —

“Herald?” Dorian was by her side now, staring down at the body in confusion and disgust. “What happened to him? Is that—”

“Red lyrium.” Issala swallowed thickly, guts turning to ice. She raised her head to meet his gaze. “Dorian, it’s just like—”

“Second wave coming! Get to your positions!” Cassandra’s voice broke through her daze, and now she could hear the clattering of armor as another group of Templars advanced on them. The Vashoth rolled the man’s body away with her foot before she climbed back up beside Sera and readied her next arrow.

As before, Issala focused on shooting down the Templars that slipped past the warriors. This lot seemed much hardier than the last, though—one hulking Templar Knight took two arrows to the face before they went down, legs still twitching in the snow. Each enemy that fell to blade or arrow or magic was more disfigured than those in the first wave. Some of them had red lyrium growing on the _outside_ of their armor, and a few had limbs that seemed entirely encased in the stuff. Those Templars in particular proved to be dangerous: they would seize and shriek before throwing wickedly sharp red shards in their direction, and one of them continued lashing out even after Dorian _set it on fire_ until it finally collapsed, smouldering in the snow.

“Almost ready! Keep them off us, Herald!”

The air was rank with the smell of blood and burning flesh, and the counterweight inched closer and closer to its goal. They were all beginning to flag, but still the Templars kept coming, each one more monstrous and twisted than the one before. Issala cursed under her breath as another one of her arrows missed its mark and sank into a shoulder instead of a neck or eye. Her next shot bounced off an armored foot when she’d meant to hit the gap at their knee. At this rate she’d run out of arrows, Sera wasn’t faring much better, they’d need to call for reinforcements soon—

“ _FIRE_!”

Finally, the long arm of the trebuchet swung, launching a massive flaming boulder across the lake where a large group of Templars were preparing to cross. The light from their torches disappeared under a huge geyser of snow and rubble, and a cheer rose when none of their enemy rose from the site of impact.

“Nicely done, Lady Herald!”

Issala whirled around, saw a small group of the Inquisition’s soldiers and Templars gathered behind them, led by one of Rutherford’s officers, a former Templar himself. 

“Good timing, Lieutenant.” She slid down from her position beside Sera to where the officer was standing. He was surveying the disfigured bodies of the Red Templars around them with an expression of dawning horror, but she snapped her fingers to draw his attention back. “How bad is the rest of the fighting?”

“Ah, we’re holding steady Ser, but the other trebuchet isn’t firing and we’ve not been able to get over there to see why.”

Issala looked over her shoulder where the soldiers were already reloading another projectile into the trebuchet’s sling, and swiped a splatter of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. “We’ll go to the other trebuchet, if your men will stay here as backup until they’re ready to fire again.” She signaled her companions with an ear-splitting whistle, then turned back to the Lieutenant. “Do not let that red lyrium touch you or your men, do you understand?”

He saluted her with an “Aye, Herald!” and then he was marching towards his men, barking orders, as Issala and her party went racing back down the path towards their next task.

As they passed Harritt's forge, Sera vaulted over the stone wall of the smithy and snagged a fresh quiver of arrows. She slung it to Issala while making kissy-face noises. “Woulda been funnier if it was Rylen instead of some random jackboot wot showed up. ‘Oooh, _Lady Adaar_ , you’re so brave and lovely, I just _had_ to come and see you in the middle of battle!’”

Cassandra, of all people, tittered behind her hand, and Issala scowled at both women, growling, “Would you two stop already? I told you, we’re not—”

“Uh, Adaar? We got a situation here.” Bull jabbed his chin towards their destination, and the others muttered various curses when they spotted the carnage that waited for them.

“ _Fenedhis_.”

“ _Kaffas_!”

“Yeah. Shit.”

The area around the trebuchet was crawlingwith Red Templars. The mangled bodies of half a dozen Inquisition soldiers and scouts were scattered around in the red-spattered snow. Partially hidden by trees and brush, Issala's party hadn’t been spotted yet.

“It is loaded, but our soldiers did not have a chance to get the counterweight into position,” Cassandra hissed. “What shall we do?”

Issala transferred as many arrows as she could to her own quiver before passing the rest back to Sera. “Draw them away from the mechanism so I can slip in and get it ready to fire. Drive them into Solas and Dorian’s traps just like before, then cut them down. And for fuck’s sake, don’t let any of that red shit touch you.”

Bull and Cassandra charged in first, catching the enemy by surprise, and the first wave fell to blade and arrow and magic once again. Issala slipped into stealth and weaved her way through the bodies, narrowly missing a Red Templar's sword swing connecting and blowing her cover. Sera hooted from across the battle as her own arrow caught them right between the eyes, and that provided the opening to crawl up to the trebuchet and start cranking the mechanism.

It was an arduous process, and Issala had to stop several times to help shoot down another wave of Red Templars, or leap down from her position altogether when the enemy got too close. It was frustrating, and it was taking its toll on them all as they kept their enemy at bay. But slowly, the counterweight raised into position, and after the last Red Templar fell under Cassandra’s blade, Issala shoved the firing lever free with her shoulder.

“Eat shit, arseholes!”

The arm of the trebuchet swung and threw its projectile in a high arc, soaring across the frozen lake. It slammed into the side of the mountain with a thunderous crash—seconds later, an avalanche of snow and rock rumbled down the side of the mountain and swept down on the ranks of the enemy. Torchlights winked out of existence, and when the fog of powder settled a great cheer rose from the soldiers behind them and from further along the lakeshore.

_They’d done it_.

Sera cackled with delight and tried to give Dorian a high-five.

Cassandra shook gore and blood from the blade of her sword.

Issala turned to the Inquisition soldiers, elated, ready to order them to roll another projectile into place.

A deafening, bone-rattling screech froze everyone in place. From a high above, a great black dragon was swooping directly towards them, towards the trebuchet.

“Get back! Everyone _MOVE_!” Bull roared, and yanked Issala backwards by her quiver harness.

As she scrambled to get out of range, the dragon shrieked again, and then the whole world was on fire.


End file.
